


The Beatles in a Beetle

by DoctorLennon007



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Funny, Gen, Humor, quirky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 25,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorLennon007/pseuds/DoctorLennon007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh God, someone save us. John Lennon's driving. Utter silliness ensues on tour! Set during late 1964 tour of Britain. Well edited!  Already with 125 comments and 79 votes on WattPad and 55 reviews and 13 favourites on FanFiction.net (as of 19 December, 2014)!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wild Ride

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I don't own the Beatles. Therefore, Paul McCartney doesn't teach me guitar, John Lennon doesn't teach me snarky humour, George Harrison doesn't teach me meditation, and Ringo Starr doesn't teach me . . . ummmm . . . I'll get back to you on that one. However, Christmas is around the corner . . . .

A/N: There were some historical inaccuracies in this one that I went through and fixed. Also, I took out some references to another story so this one can stand alone. Enjoy!

 

John Lennon was driving like a maniac. In fact, he'd never driven before. All in all, he was pleased with his performance. His friends weren't.

The moment John pressed the accelerator down as far as it would go, Paul nearly screamed. This was definitely the scariest thing he'd ever done. Next time John was at the wheel, Paul definitely wouldn't be riding in the front passenger seat. He probably would be running away from the car. _If there is a next time_ , Paul thought, grimacing. He turned green as John sailed around the first sharp corner at 120 miles per hour. As the Volkswagen Beetle skidded into the narrow, cobbled alley, one of the rear-view mirrors was knocked off by the corner of a large, green dumpster. Paul closed his eyes and plugged his ears so he couldn't hear the terrible skreechings the Beetle made every time John turned a corner or see the numerous times they nearly crashed.

George felt as though he were spinning on a merry-go-round which happened to be going 500 miles an hour, dangling from a blimp above the city. Every time they turned a corner into another narrow, bumpy street, George felt as though John had pushed the accelerator. That wasn't actually possible, George realized as he glanced at John's feet; the accelerator was as far down as it would go.

Ringo was wishing he'd told his mother he loved her before the last time he'd left her house. He hoped dying wouldn't be too painful. He stared at the floor of the car between his feet, trying not to focus on how much it was vibrating. He was biting his lip so hard that he drew blood, the metallic tang of it swirling around his taste buds.

Because Paul had closed his eyes and Ringo was staring at the floor, only George saw the red sign.

"It's a stop sign!" he cried, partly relieved and partly terrified. What if John didn't stop?

"Hit the brakes! HIT THE BRAKES!" screamed Ringo in terror, his teeth finally relinquishing their hold on his lip.

 _SKREECH!_ went the brakes. The yellow VW stopped so abruptly its four occupants were thrown forward. George and Ringo bounced into the backs of the front seats. John and Paul would have been thrown straight out the front windscreen if they hadn't been wearing seatbelts.

There was a pause, in which Paul, George and Ringo sorted out whether they were alive or not. Paul also opened his eyes and unplugged his ears.

Paul was the one who finally broke the silence.

"Thank God I was wearing a seatbelt," he said vehemently. Ringo smiled a little and leaned back against his headrest, blissfully happy to be alive and temporarily out of danger. George stared at the back of Paul's seat, looking rather shell-shocked.

"I'm a careful driver, I am," replied John reproachfully. The other three Beatles groaned in unison.

"I will not spend one more second in this car," said Paul suddenly. He threw open his door and leapt out of the now-considerably-worse-for-the-wear Volkswagen.

John looked mildly surprised at his friend's vehemence. "I'm not that bad," he said, turning to George and Ringo in the backseat. They weren't there anymore. George had joined Paul on the narrow sidewalk, and Ringo was busy throwing up in an alley around the corner.

 

A/N: Reviews brighten the dreary grey sky and dreary grey asphalt and all dreary grey things in between them. Ta!


	2. Reception

The Beatles, own them I not do. You thank.

A/N: Yay! Chapter Two! Any ideas/thoughts? If I keep going, do you want a real plotline to develop or are you content to let it keep rambling? Tell me what you think in your reviews! Once I get 10 reviews, I'll post a chapter sometime in the next couple of weeks! Thanks for reading!

 

An hour and several mad dashes from frenzied fans later, the four Beatles traipsed into the hotel lobby, considerably worse for the wear. Paul was missing his jacket, George was dripping wet, Ringo's back had "You're our favourite, lover boy" written on it in lipstick, and John had somehow lost his shoes. The latter walked up to the reception desk, wincing as he stepped on a pebble.

"I'd like the key to my room, please," requested John, leaning over the desk, just a little too close to the face of the receptionist, a balding man in his mid-forties. The receptionist leaned back slightly, taking in John's rumpled suit, ripped tie, long hair, slightly manic smile, and intense stare.

The receptionist was controlled enough to only appear vaguely flustered by the younger man's appearance.

"Name, sir?"

John leaned even closer, squinting at the man with the "Lennon stare" intimidating only to those who didn't know he was "blind as a bat," as Paul often put it. John glanced over his shoulder warily, winking at the screaming girls outside the glass door, before turning back to the receptionist.

"Don't tell anyone," whispered John confidentially, "But I'm Marilyn Monroe."

The receptionist leaned back a little more, scanning John warily, eyebrows raised.

"Erm . . . okay," replied the receptionist. He pulled out the guest register.

"Lennon . . . McCartney . . . Porter . . . Starkey . . . Nope, I don't see a 'Monroe' in here," replied the receptionist, trying to maintain some degree of normality as he ran his finger down the list of names. He looked up to see what the other strange young men were doing. Paul was sitting in an armchair from the waiting area, which the Beatles had pushed against the door as a barricade against the fans. He was smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine, smoothing down his hair with his right hand as he held the magazine with his left, looking utterly relaxed despite the girls pounding on the glass behind him. Ringo was examining the items in the bland waiting room.

As he picked up an ashtray, he peered into the shallow, glass dish and called, "Anybody in there?" Ringo's back was to the desk; the receptionist could quite clearly read the red message scrawled across it, though Ringo seemed unaware of the writing.

George shook himself off like a dog, spraying water across the furnishings of the lobby. He then crouched under the glass ashtray Ringo was holding.

"Colonel Mustard here," he called back to Ringo, hands cupped around his mouth.

"Haloo, Colonel!" replied Ringo laconically. "Everything going according to plan?"

"Quite!" exclaimed George in a posh accent. "How about at your end of things?"

"Everything continues spiffingly," beamed Ringo.

The receptionist turned back to John. John was fiddling with a fountain pen he'd purloined from the desk. He looked up slowly and treated the receptionist to one of his "crip" faces, jutting his chin toward the older man, pushing out his lower lip with his tongue, and crossing his eyes.

The receptionist blanched.

As Ringo put down the ashtray, George poked him.

"Gotcha!" gloated George, dancing away from Ringo as the drummer aimed a finger gun at the lead guitarist.

"There ain't room for the both of us in this here town," growled Ringo in a pseudo-American accent.

George blew a raspberry at Ringo. "You couldn't get me if you tried."

"Bang! Bang!" yelled Ringo, advancing toward George. George threw his arms in the air and moaned theatrically.

"Boys, boys," tutted Paul, looking up from his magazine. "That's quite enough for today, don't you think?"

"Fine," muttered Ringo, turning to look at Paul. Behind his back, George clambered up, clutching the nearest chair as he aimed his own finger gun at Ringo.

"Prepare to die!" yelled George triumphantly. "Bang!"

Ringo gasped, falling to his knees.

"I am got!" he exclaimed. "I'm dying!"

At the reception desk, John abruptly switched out of crip mode. "We're in the suite at the top floor. Actually, we've got the whole top floor, if you want you can just give me all of those keys."

"I don't feel comfortable-" started the receptionist feebly, but he was interrupted.

"I think it's time these shenanigans came to an end, boys," said a posh voice from the staircase. The Beatles looked over to see Brian Epstein standing at the foot of the stairs, appearance as immaculate as ever. The receptionist looked as though he might faint from the sheer relief of it.

John stuck his tongue out at Brian. "Aw, come on, we were having fun!"

"And you've got a press conference in forty-five minutes. I do hope you'll be presentable," sniffed Brian.

"Yes, mother," muttered John rebelliously. Ringo clambered up from the floor and George shook himself off again. Paul got up and dropped his magazine carelessly back onto the chair, giving a cheeky wave to the girls behind the door. They screamed even more loudly.

"There's no need to overexcite them, Paul," reprimanded Brian as the Beatles congregated around him. The manager got their keys from the receptionist and escorted the band to the stairs. As they began to ascend, Brian in the lead, he turned his head to speak to them.

"By the way, where's the car?"

"Ummm . . ."

 

A/N: Remember, a review a day keeps the story going strong. Or something like that. You know what, let's just stick with reviews make my world a better place! And your world, too! 10 reviews and I update!


	3. The Tale of the Beetle's Demise

You'll never believe what happened to me today: a friend of mine told me I don't own the Beatles! O the horror!

A/N: OK, I lied, I didn't wait for ten reviews. I saw omgringo's lovely review and I couldn't resist writing another chapter. Thanks, omgringo, you made my day! This one's for you:

 

"By the way, where's the car?" asked Brian as the five Liverpudlians trudged up the stairs.

"Ummm . . ." replied the Beatles in unison. John tried to glance in alarm at Paul, but Paul was busy glancing in alarm at George. Ringo stared down at his feet.

Brian stopped abruptly, glaring at his charges. John, now busy trying to make eye contact with George, nearly walked into the manager.

"We're not telling you anything!" cried John, leaping away from Brian. "We'd rather die than reveal our secrets!"

"Where . . . is . . . the . . . car?" Brian enunciated clearly, glaring at the Beatles. His gaze settled on Paul, the only band member willing to make eye contact with Brian.

Paul widened his eyes innocently. "I dunno," he remarked, shrugging.

Brian's gaze shifted to George, who deliberately looked up at the ceiling for a second, humming, before looking at Brian. He gazed levelly at the band's manager as he commented, "I think you've got something on your nose, Eppy."

Brian's hand got halfway to his nose before it returned to his pocket. He chuckled dryly as he turned to stare at John. John cringed and grabbed George, thrusting the youngest Beatle in front of him.

"Aim your death rays at him, not me!" screamed John. "I don't want to be turned to stone by the horrifible Eppeusa!"

Brian growled and flicked his eyes toward Ringo. He glared at the drummer for a few seconds of tense silence.

"It was John!" Ringo finally exclaimed.

Brian sighed. "John, what did you do to the car?"

"I didn't do nuffink!" John called defiantly from behind George.

"Gerroff me," complained George, wiggling out of John's grasp.

"He just exceeded a few speed limits, is all," Paul attempted at diplomacy. "We ditched the car because it was too recognizable."

"Exceeded a few speed limits? That's understatement of the century, Paul," snorted George.

John glared at Ringo. "You've let us down, son."

"Sorry," muttered Ringo, fiddling with one of his rings. "But I didn't have a human barrier, you know."

"You'll pay for this," growled John darkly. He then cackled madly.

"And what condition is the car in?" Brian sighed.

"Can we go up to our rooms? I want to get ready for the press conference," said John, batting his eyes at Brian.

"Stop evading the question."

"It's still yellow," said George.

"The question?" asked Paul.

"No, the car," replied George.

"Is that the best you can say?" asked Brian. "It's still yellow?"

"It still has one of the rear view mirrors, too," said Paul reasonably.

"Not both?" asked Brian. "Just how bad a driver are you, John?"

"He's never driven before in his life," said Ringo morosely.

"So I did pretty darn well for a first time, then," said John, smugly straightening his ripped tie.

Brian buried his face in his palm. "Please tell me the car isn't too damaged," he said, his voice muffled by his hand.

"It's pretty mangled," said George with relish. "There are great gouges in the right side, and there's a hole in the roof. Plus the front end is all squished and bent from that other car, the green one. And -"

"John, that was a rental!" exclaimed Brian.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, won't happen again, sir, would you like me to kiss your boots, sir, how can I ever make it up to you, sir," moaned John, prostrating himself on the stairs.

"You can pay the rental company back, that's what," answered Brian irritably. "Now come on, you need to get ready for that press conference. We're running late as it is."

John scrambled to his feet as the others resumed climbing the stairs.

"You're gonna pay for that one," he murmured in Ringo's ear as he passed the drummer. Ringo glanced back at John in alarm, only to find that John had continued up the stairs.

 

A/N: The more you review, the more likely I am to post the next chapter! No guarantees of pacing, I'm insanely busy. However, I won't abandon this one!


	4. Sleep Like a Clock

When Andorra found out that I don't own the Beatles, the nation went into a week of mourning. Wearing any colour other than black during that week was illegal on penalty of death. Can I prove this? you doubters may ask. Can you prove otherwise? I reply. Do you know what happens in Andorra? Does anyone know what happens in Andorra? Have you ever known anyone to return from Andorra? Has Andorra ever been overtly involved in anything outside of Andorra? Or are they neutral in everything . . . suspiciously neutral?

A/N: Yay! Another chapter! This one is mostly filler, but it's important prep for the next chapter. Don't forget to drop me a line, stating point of view! Reviews oil my writerly machinery!

That night found the Beatles and Brian trudging down the dimly lit hallway of the top floor of the hotel.

"I'm off to bed," said Brian as they reached his room. "Behave yourselves, boys," he added sternly.

"Oh, but of course!" exclaimed John in a falsetto voice. "Why wouldn't we?" He tilted his head back and fanned himself dramatically with his hand.

Brian ignored John's antics. "Night, all," he said as he unlocked his door. He hooked a paper "Do Not Disturb" sign on the handle and entered his room.

The Beatles stood in silence around Brian's door for a second after their manager had closed it.

Ringo broke the silence. "Anyone want to go out?" he suggested feebly. The other three groaned.

"No, I don't either," replied Ringo.

"Yeah, I'm knackered." Paul failed to suppress a yawn. Silence fell again. John made a show of pretending to pick his nose with his knuckle.

"Should we go to bed, then?" proposed George.

"That sounds great," agreed Ringo vehemently. "I'm gonna sleep like a clock."

"Er, that's 'rock,' Rings," corrected Paul, scratching his head.

John rubbed his hands together with a malicious smile, chuckling to himself.

"What're you excited about?" asked Paul.

"Will you please stop talking out there?" called Brian from his room. The Beatles burst out laughing. John pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled something on Brian's "Do Not Disturb" sign. George peered over John's shoulder as the rhythm guitarist shoved the sign under their manager's door.

"Bibble waggy doorshock mip?" asked George. "What does that mean?"

"We'll let him figure that one out, saves me the trouble," mandated John. "C'mon, let's get away before he catches us!"

Mal stuck his head out the door across the hall. "What's going on?" the roadie asked sleepily.

John screamed, "It's the henchman! Quick, make a getaway!"

The band raced down the hallway and piled into John and George's room. A befuddled Mal withdrew his head from the hall and closed his door.

"Phew," sighed Paul as George closed the door behind them. John slipped off his shoes and socks and dumped them unceremoniously next to the door. Ringo walked over to the television.

"What're you doing?" asked George as he followed Paul into the room. John spread his arms out to his sides and let himself fall backward onto his bed, muttering "Oof" as his back hit the mattress.

"Watching some telly," replied Ringo, bending down to turn the television on.

"Do it in your own room," George retorted, pulling off his jacket and throwing it across the room, where it landed in a crumpled heap. Paul winced slightly as he imagined Brian's reaction, had the manager been there.

"Selfish git," muttered Ringo.

"I'm not being selfish, it's my own room, after all," replied George.

"Don't be so hard on him, we're just tired," Paul intervened, entirely failing to stifle another yawn.

"Yay! We're tired! Everybody GO TO BED!" exclaimed John, gleefully jerking up from the bed. His eyes glittered with anything but tiredness as he gesticulated wildly.

George raised an eyebrow at his overexcited bandmate. "You alright?"

"I'm great! Never been better! Let's sleep like clocks!" crowed John.

"You never want to sleep," said Paul suspiciously.

"I've had a change of heart," replied John proudly, straightening his posture. "I've turned over a new leaf, found my calling, discovered the meaning of life."

"You're off your rocker," said Ringo.

John scrunched up his face at Ringo. "Don't you mean off your clocker? Or perhaps you mean I am a rocker."

"Can we get some sleep in here, please?" asked George as he pulled off his tie, discarding it with his jacket.

"Fine," said Paul. "C'mon, Rings." The bassist left through the door connecting the Beatles' hotel rooms. Ringo followed close behind, and was nearly through the door when John stopped him.

"Oh, and Ringo?" called John innocently.

Ringo turned around, one hand on the door to his and Paul's room. "What is it?"

John smirked triumphantly. "I'm coming for you, right when you least expect it."

Ringo's brow furrowed. "What am I supposed to say to that?"

John lifted his leg and wiggled his bare toes at Ringo. "Bye bye!"

Ringo shrugged and followed Paul into the other room, closing the door behind him.

A/N: Reviews please me greatly! They also make me write faster!


	5. The Glitter Games

Can you feel that? Paul McCartney is standing right behind you, watching you read this nonsense. He is thinking so loudly you can almost see the words floating in the air around him. These are the words:

"This writer does not own the Beatles!"

A/N: At last! The saga continues! This is the longest installment yet. Thanks so much to omgringo for continued support and to Macca's Little Teddy Bear for the lovely review!

 

Paul was awoken by a clicking noise. He didn't particularly want to be awoken, though, so he stayed curled up in his warm bed with his eyes closed. He figured that Brian had probably come to wake them up for an "early start," as he too often did. Still, Paul wished the manager had waited until after the wake-up call, at least.

Yep, there he is, thought Paul grimly as he heard a floorboard creak.

"'M coming, 'm coming," he mumbled sleepily, pulling his covers over his head.

He heard nothing. He started to fall asleep again.

Hang on, that's odd, Paul suddenly thought. Shouldn't he have said something by now?

The bassist pulled back down the sheet slightly and cracked one of his eyes open tentatively, preparing to be blinded by the morning sun. However, the hotel room was still pitch black, the only light coming from the illuminated face of the alarm clock, which marked the time as 2:18.

Paul opened his other eye and turned his head, scanning the room.

There. The door connecting his and Ringo's room with John and George's was open a crack. And next to it stood a shadowy figure, holding something long and thin in its hand.

Paul swore mentally.

"What're you doing in here?" he squeaked in a feeble attempt to be authoritative.

"Shh!" whispered the figure, putting a finger to its lips.

"I will not shush!" said Paul loudly, recovering his voice.

"Shut up! You'll wake him up!" replied the figure in a familiar Scouse accent.

"John?" whispered Paul, pushing himself into a sitting position.

"Yeah, of course, you idiot! Who else'd be sneaking into your room at 2:30 in the morning?" hissed John as he approached Ringo's bed.

"What've you got in your hand?" asked Paul, swinging his legs out of bed.

John snickered. "He had it coming," he said, gesturing to sleeping Ringo.

Paul got out of bed. "What're you going to do to him?" he asked, now wide awake.

John pulled something out of his pajama's pocket and tossed it to Paul. Paul caught another long, thin thing like the item John was holding.

"It's a marker," muttered Paul slowly, uncapping the pen. Ringo continued to snore, blissfully unaware of the conversation taking place at his bedside.

"Does he wake up if you turn on the light?" asked John. "It's hard to tell the colours apart in the dark."

"Erm, probably not," replied Paul. "He doesn't usually, and he was pretty knackered earlier."

Without further ado, John reached over to the bedside lamp and flicked it on. Yellow light flooded the room. Paul blinked.

"Oi! A bit of warning would be nice next time," said Paul, disgruntled.

John emptied his bulging pockets in a businesslike manner. Paul tossed his marker onto the pile of pens, markers, glitter glue tubes, and packets of coloured feathers now languishing haphazardly on the bedside table.

"When did you get all these?" wondered Paul, no longer bothering to keep his voice down. It seemed clear that Ringo was down for the count.

"Wouldn't you like to know," replied John with a smirk. He reached for a thick black marker. "We'll start simple, I think."

"We?"

"Unless you want to go back to sleep and miss out on the fun, that is."

"I'll just watch, thanks."

John set to work drawing a Hitler moustache onto Ringo's upper lip. "Just a little bit more there," muttered John, tongue between his teeth as he worked. The yellow lamplight reflected off of John's glasses.

Paul snickered as he sat down on his bed to watch the show.

"What's going on in here?" asked a third voice groggily. John and Paul whipped around to see George standing in the doorway, wearing a ratty blue bathrobe and a scowl.

"Nothing," said Paul innocently.

"Art," said John simultaneously. "Art with a political message."

George ambled over to Ringo's bedside, where John had started drawing pointillist dolphins in pink and turquoise on Ringo's right cheek.

George raised an eyebrow a la Spock.

"What's the political message?" the youngest Beatle asked skeptically.

"Don't rat out your friends," answered John promptly as he outlined the pointillist dolphins in purple glitter glue.

"Do you want to watch with me?" invited Paul, patting the space on the bed next to him.

"You know, you were driving just about as terribly as is humanly possible," said George.

"That's no reason to tattle tale to Brian, now is it?" asked John, jutting out his chin thoughtfully as he squeezed a hefty dollop of gold glitter glue onto Ringo's forehead.

George shrugged as he joined Paul on the bassist's bed.

"I reckon Paul and I should be getting revenge on you for nearly murdering us with your awful driving," mused George contemplatively. Ringo continued to snore loudly as John pushed orange- and green-dyed feathers into the gold glitter glue on the drummer's forehead.

"Leave me out of it, mate," said Paul quickly.

"I'd like to see you try," said John, doodling a dog onto Ringo's left cheek in blue marker. On a whim, he added a diaper to the dog's rear end.

"Challenge accepted," replied George, leaning back on the bed. Paul looked rather alarmed.

John grabbed a finer, red pen from the desk and wrote "You're our favourite, lover boy," onto the dog's diaper.

Ringo mumbled something incomprehensible. John leapt back, clambered over Paul's bed between Paul and George, and crouched behind the piece of furniture. Paul reached over and turned out the light.

The three guitarist Beatles sat in silence.

"No, no . . . that's too much now . . . ah, there we go," muttered Ringo.

"D'you think he's sleep talking?" whispered Paul.

"Shh!" whispered John.

Ringo resumed snoring. After another minute of tense silence, Paul turned back on the light.

Ringo looked much the same as before. George, however, was holding several tubes of glitter glue, one of which was aimed directly at John's face. One of the lenses of John's glasses had already been completely covered in the sparkly pink goop.

John yelped and yanked the glasses off his face, tossing them to an alarmed Paul.

"You're gonna pay for this, Harrison!" shouted John, lunging at George. Paul put the glasses on the bedside table and managed to leap off the bed and out of the way as John tackled the youngest Beatle.

George laughed madly, squirting glitter glue all over John's red pajamas. John cackled as he grabbed the rest of the glitter glue from the bedside table.

Ringo stirred uneasily as George leapt onto John's back, pushing John onto the floor.

"Break it up, guys! Break it up!" called Paul, leaping into the fray. Soon his blue-and-white-striped pajamas had acquired many more stripes of various colours.

"'s it time to go?" asked Ringo blearily, sitting up. A single droplet of golden glitter glue meandered down his nose as he watched the other three rolling around on the floor, giggling like mad.

"What's going on?" the drummer asked.

Paul was doubled over on the carpet, laughing silently, as George kneeled next to him, tickling his stomach. John was standing, dancing around George as he squirted bright yellow glitter glue into George's hair. John started singing a nursery rhyme. Ringo noticed at this point that something was on his nose and crossed his eyes to see the droplet of golden glitter glue dangling from the end of his nose.

That was when Brian opened the door, closely followed by Mal and Neil.

"What in God's name happened in here?" exclaimed their manager.

George stopped tickling Paul and looked up at Brian. Paul wheezed, gathering some of his breath back. Ringo stopped batting at his nose to get rid of the glitter glue. John stopped singing and dancing to look up at Brian, but continued absentmindedly squirting the glitter glue into George's mop top.

"We thought you'd been attacked or something!" shouted Mal. "You've woken up two floors of the hotel, at least!"

"You're lucky it's us and not the hotel owner in here!" ranted Neil.

"You need to clean up now, before that glue hardens in your hair! We can't have it cut out!" moaned Brian.

John deliberately stopped squirting the glue into George's hair and walked over to Brian slowly. He got nose to nose with the manager.

They stared at each other.

"But of course," said John finally, sarcasm dripping from his every syllable. "Right away, sir."

He slowly raised the glitter glue above Brian's head. The world seemed to move in slow motion as everyone else's eyes widened.

"No!" gasped Paul. Everyone else couldn't seem to speak.

"You really think so?" asked John, turning his head slightly in Paul's direction, eyes still locked on Brian.

"We've done enough damage tonight," pointed out Paul. "Save it for later."

John reluctantly lowered the glitter glue.

"Next time you'd better be ready, Eppy," warned John as he stalked off to his own room.

Brian, Neil and Mal surveyed Ringo's face, Paul and George's glitter-covered pajamas, the formerly beige carpet, and the sheets strewn across the floor.

"You lot are in so much trouble," commented Ringo.

 

A/N: Reviews motivate me to keep writing! You can use the review box below to post a review! See you next time!


	6. Wake Up Calls and Daring Choices

Alright, I write fanfiction. If you don't know what fanfiction is, it's stories written by fans about their favourite popular culture characters and events. These characters and events were created by other, more prestigious persons, or were even real people. However, unless they are real people and have been sold as slaves to the author of such a work, the author of fanfiction does NOT own any characters in the fanfiction (except characters the aforementioned author created himself or herself). This is a fanfiction, and the rule applies here as in any other fanfiction: This author does not own the Beatles.

A/N: Hi everybody! I'm back! I also created a new forum with omgringo as comoderator, Beatlemaniacs United, accessible here: www. fan fiction my forums / Doctor-Lennon- 007/ 5340672/ [remove spaces] Drop by and say hello!

 

Paul and Ringo's phone rang first, just as pink dawn light began to filter into the hotel room.

"Can you get that, Rings?" called Paul from the shower.

"Mmm . . ." grumbled Ringo. He sleepily fumbled for the phone.

"Hello?" he answered blearily, his eyes still gummed shut with sleep. After a pause, he answered, "Okay, thanks for the wake-up call." He hung up and snuggled back down under the covers.

Then, the phone rang in John and George's room. This room was well-lit by the overhead light - John hadn't even tried to go back to sleep; by the time he had finished washing off glitter glue, it had been 3:30, and he hadn't felt like lying in bed in the dark for the next two hours, unable to sleep. John was sitting in the room's lone armchair, watching morning cartoons. George was sleeping, his head buried under his pillow.

"Get the phone, George," ordered John.

"You get it, I'm asleep," groaned George from under his pillow.

"You're closer to the phone," responded John, his eyes still fixed on the television.

The telephone continued to ring shrilly.

George grumbled something about a lazy swine as he pulled his head out from under his pillow. He pulled the phone up a couple of centimeters above its cradle and half-heartedly dropped it back into its cradle.

"Lazy and proud of it!" exclaimed John proudly.

"I'm going back to sleep like a normal person," groaned George, shoving his head back under his pillow defiantly.

In one fluid motion, John reached over to George's bed and yanked off his covers. The rhythm guitarist didn't bother to get up from the armchair or stop watching the television as George yelped and sat up.

"What was that for?" complained George.

"Are you up, boys?" asked Brian from the hall.

"Yes, Brian," chorused John and George.

Brian continued down the hall and knocked on Paul and Ringo's door.

"Rise and shine, boys!" he called.

Paul opened the door. He wore his suit pants and white shirt, and had a towel draped across his shoulders to stop his wet hair from dripping onto his clothes. He held a comb in one hand.

"Is it time to go yet?" asked Paul sleepily.

"It was time to go," reprimanded Brian, glancing at his watch, "five minutes ago."

Paul frowned. "Ringo isn't even up yet."

"Didn't you get the wake-up call? It was scheduled to remind you that it was time to go, remember?"

Paul stared at the manager blankly. "Oh."

"Will you get John and George? They said they were already up."

"Alright, Eppy," said Paul. He strode to the door to George and John's room.

"Brian wants you," said Paul.

John pushed past him into the room, already fully dressed.

"Excellent! Time to go over the battle plan!" enthused John mockingly. Brian scowled.

George followed John into the room, wearing only a torn white button-up shirt and pale blue boxers.

"Daring choice, George," commented Ringo, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Oh shut up," snapped George.

"Maybe a bit too daring," mused Paul. "You might want to accentuate the look with long underwear or something."

John snickered. "George likes to be daring. The girls are very impressed when he is!"

"I would be wearing proper pajamas if you hadn't ruined mine," complained George.

Paul rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, I think pajamas would do nicely to tone down the look."

"How did this situation get away from me?" wondered Brian aloud.

Suddenly, Mal and Neil burst into the room. Mal was clutching a half-eaten bagel.

"They've started to gather again," warned Neil. "We'll have to start soon."

"It's five thirty in the morning! What're they doing up?" asked Ringo, flabbergasted.

"Your fans are determined to see you, no matter what time of day," said Mal, pointing at Ringo with his bagel.

"They're determined to do a lot more than see us," snorted John.

"Ta," said George, grabbing Mal's bagel from the roadie's outstretched hand. "I've been dying for a bit of brekkie."

"Oi!" exclaimed Mal. "That was mine!"

George finished off the bagel with an enormous swallow.

"Want it back?" asked George.

"Where are your clothes, George?" wondered Neil, eyeing the guitarist suspiciously.

"In my suitcase," replied George. "Obviously."

"And on the floor," added John helpfully, pulling a small slinky out of his pocket and fiddling with it.

George inclined his head slightly in assent.

"Then go put them on," suggested Neil, flapping his hand toward the door connecting the Beatles' hotel rooms.

George ambled back to his room to change.

"You ought to get ready too, Ringo," said Brian pointedly.

Ringo reluctantly exited his bed. He was still in his pajamas, which hadn't been ruined by glitter glue like the others' had. He stumbled to the bathroom, clutching a clean suit.

Once the Beatles were fully dressed and packed, Brian gathered the team around him.

"Alright, here's the plan -" he started.

"Yes," interjected John.

Brian was getting to be quite the pro at ignoring John by this point, and continued, "We'll go out in pairs -"

"Okay," said John annoyingly, nodding after his assertion in a brisk movement like a punctuation mark.

Brian persevered, "Any more at once, and we're astronomically more likely to be recognized -"

"Mhm," assented John, pulling a pen and notebook out of an inner pocket of his jacket.

"Each pair will go down the back stairs -" Brian attempted. When he saw John's mouth beginning to open, however, he cut the guitarist to the chase. "What is it this time, Lennon?"

"Gotcha," said John, jotting something down in his notebook.

"Would you please be quiet while I'm giving directions?"

"Yep," said John, before his hand shot up to his mouth, his eyes wide. "Sorry, I said something, Bri! Oops, I said something again! Oh no, I -"

"That will be quite enough of that, thank you," said Brian briskly. John was suddenly silenced, but he continued to wordlessly mouth something indecipherable as Brian continued:

"As I was saying, each pair will go down the back stairs, left, second right, through the kitchen, out the service door, and into the waiting bus. Got it?"

John raised his hand tentatively.

Brian sighed. "Yes?"

"Can we get some tea on the way out, sir?" asked John pitifully, making his best attempt at doe eyes.

"No, we don't have time. We're running late enough as it is," snapped Brian. John made a face at the manager before crossing his arms in a pout.

"What're the pairs, then?" asked Paul.

"I'll go first with Ringo, then you and John, then George and Neil, and Mal will go out last."

"Poor Mal, all on his own," sniffed John, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes before remembering that he was supposed to be pouting.

"Right, let's get a move on," said Brian, glancing at his watch again. "Ringo, come on."

A/N: Please, grant me a review! This one boon I beg of you; then you may leave in peace! Remember the maths: reviews=author happiness author happiness=more writing more writing=more updating more updating=your happiness Therefore, reviews make you happy!


	7. Wizard in the Box

In the afterlife, John Lennon and George Harrison are laughing so hard they've accidentally broken their harps. No, not at my story, I'm not that big-headed. They are laughing at you for believing I own the Beatles, when they are as free as can be.

A/N: Hi everybody! First off, the rating's been raised from K to K+ for one mild profanity as part of one of John's puns. Thought I'd be safe rather than sorry, but I assure you that the tone remains the same as ever - all good-natured, wholesome fun! Thanks to singertobe and omgringo on FanFiction and to Macca40 on Wattpad for all the support!

 

Brian led the way briskly through the kitchen, Ringo trailing along behind.

"Ooh, crepes!" exclaimed Ringo as he looked around at the bustling room.

"Nope, we've got to keep going," said Brian. "Sorry, Ringo."

Ringo looked crestfallen, but he dutifully followed Brian out the windowless back door and into the supply-truck alleyway behind the hotel. The sole occupants of this alley were a pair of unsightly dumpsters, a bus with reflective windows, and a stray cat. The stray cat started at the opening of the door and ran away, leaving Ringo and Brian alone with the bus and the dumpsters.

Brian continued to walk briskly toward the bus. The bus didn't move. Ringo didn't move. The dumpsters didn't move. A chilly breeze gusted past.

Brian turned around as he reached the door of the bus, his scarf flapping in the wind.

"What's wrong?" he asked the stationary drummer irritably.

Ringo glanced around the deserted alleyway, bewildered. "There's no one here," he finally managed.

"Yes, I know! Now get in the bus before that changes!"

"But . . . fans are always here," said Ringo slowly. "There must be some sort of trick. Maybe it's an ambush!"

"It's five thirty in the morning! Of course they're not here yet!"

"But Neil said they were . . . ."

"They're probably congregated around the front."

Ringo glanced warily down the alley. "I don't hear them screaming or anything." His voice lowered to a whisper as he continued, "It's unnatural."

Brian turned his back to Ringo and rapped on the bus's door. The drummer cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Anybody there?" he called loudly. Brian whirled to stare at Ringo in horror, but his scarf got blown straight into his face. For a moment, he could only see polka dots. Brian didn't have a chance to pull the scarf off his face before something heavy bowled him over, into the bus through its now-open door.

The thing got off Brian as the bus door slammed shut. Brian coughed and pulled the scarf off his face to look up at the thing.

The thing had a large nose, mop top, and several rings.

"You alright?" panted Ringo.

Brian stared at the door and panted as a horde of screaming girls simultaneously threw themselves at the tour bus. The bus rocked from side to side drunkenly.

"How are the others going to get in here?" wondered Ringo aloud.

Brian shot Ringo his most withering death glare, the one he normally reserved for John.

"What were you thinking?" spat the manager.

 

The rest of the Beatles were blissfully unaware of the situation unfolding several floors below. Paul and John were playing "epic tic-tac-toe" on John's notepad, with George as referee. Mal was double-checking the rooms to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything, and Neil was nervously staring at his watch.

John scribbled something into the 9-square-by-9-square tic-tac-toe game, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"He can't do that!" Paul objected. "You can't put in a pentagon unless there's at least one irregular cluster nearby!"

"Yes, I can! There's a wizard to the left, see?" said John defensively.

"Oh, come off it, that's ridiculous," Paul groaned. "Wizards are meant to protect squares from greater-sided objects! What do you think, George?"

"Hang on a mo," frowned George. He bent over the tic-tac-toe game, analyzing it carefully, before straightening up to announce his verdict. "Well, you're right that the wizard doesn't justify his positioning of the pentagon, but he can still put it there."

"How?" asked John and Paul simultaneously.

"See, you've got a fourth-dimension squiggle there," said George, pointing to another square, "And that counts as a cluster for the purpose of positioning two-dimensional regular geometric shapes, remember?"

"Oh yeah," said Paul, nodding. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I knew that all along," said John quickly. "I was just testing our referee."

Neil looked up from his watch. "Time to go, guys."

John flapped shut his notebook, and he and Paul got up.

"Nice knowing you," he said melodramatically as they headed for the door. "If we don't come back, tell Cyn I love her."

"Will do," said George, tipping an imaginary hat at them. "Best of luck to you, boys."

"Thank you kindly," said Paul in a horrendous cowboy accent before slamming shut the door.

"What was it Brian said?" asked Paul as he and John headed for the back stairs. "Down the stairs, to the left? Or was it the right? Then what?"

"I thought you were listening," sniffed John. "You're the responsible one, after all."

Paul scrunched up his face like he'd taken a bite of an apple and it had been filled with hot sauce. John loved that facial expression. He poked Paul's scrunched nose.

"You were the one taking notes!" said Paul indignantly. "And don't poke my nose!"

"Oh yeah," said John. He whipped out his notebook, flipped it to the appropriate page, and handed it to Paul.

"Four (or five) scare and seven (or six) years ago, there was a dustbunny," read Paul aloud. "His name were Miranda, for he was often of the Maranda clan. Maronda's boast friend, a dragon of highest proportion, was christened SteveBob. SteveBob heralded from the shitty of SweatnessAndSugar, capital shitty of the dragoons. One day, Marondu decided to get marred to another dustbunny. SteveBob wiggled against this coarse of action."

Paul stopped reading and looked up at John, aghast. "This is it?"

John's eyes widened in a failed attempt at Paul's "doe-eyed sincerity" look. "That's all I could get down, he was talking awfully fast for dictation."

Paul snorted as they reached the landing. "That innocent look doesn't work on me. After all, I invented it."

"You did no such thing!" exclaimed John as they reached the foot of the stairs.

"Moment of truth," said Paul. "Right or left? And don't fool around, I want to get on the bus before the fans mob it."

"Right," said John promptly.

Paul looked at his best friend suspiciously.

"What?" said John, "I want to go the right way just as much as you do! We'd be going through the kitchen, and I want tea before we start!"

"Are you sure he said right?" asked Paul. "Cause I'm pretty sure he said left, then right."

"I thought he said right," said John. "Wasn't it right, then third left?"

"Okay, right then," said Paul, shrugging. "There can't be many fans anyroad, it is five thirty in the morning."

Lennon and McCartney turned right, heading down the rather dark hallway and in completely the wrong direction.

 

A/N: Reviews please my muse. They turn her away from eating popcorn and watching Gilligan's Island reruns for the nth time. They turn her to her pen and paper and laptop, and they guide her hand as she continues her utterly pointless saga.


	8. Trashed by Dinosaurs

In this, the author of this shall be known as X. Those depicted therein as possible property of another or as property of no one shall be known as Y, or more commonly in the plural form Ys, also known as the Beatle or more commonly in the plural form the Beatles. This itself, the story to which this agreement of sorts pertains, shall be known as Z. In Z, X does not own Ys. Best part: No multiplication.

A/N: Well, aren't you lucky! Two updates in two days! And it's not even Christmas yet! Haven't gotten any reviews in the past half-hour so there's no one to thank (yet!). Also, drop by Beatlemaniacs United! [Insert magic word here]?

 

Back in the hotel room, Neil was still glaring worriedly at his watch. George was humming "Heartbreak Hotel" to himself and fiddling with a corkscrew. Mal strode over to the windows.

"That's odd," the roadie said to no one in particular. "There aren't as many girls out there as there were before."

"Mmm," said Neil.

"When are we going down?" asked George.

"In two minutes and thirty-nine seconds," said Neil.

George got up from the bed and ambled over to the hotel room mini-fridge.

"Oh look, they've got juice and snacks in here," said George. "How nice."

He reached for a small bag of trail mix.

"Dunno why they put trail mix in a fridge, though," he contemplated as his fingers brushed the plastic wrapper –

"NO!" yelled Mal and Neil. George froze.

"What's wrong?" asked the Beatle. "Has something happened?"

"You can't take that!" gasped Neil. "They'll charge you an arm and a leg for it!"

"Can I give them two legs instead? I need both arms to play guitar," deadpanned George. "Anyroad, shouldn't they put the price in there if it's not complimentary?"

"Time to go," said Neil, standing up abruptly.

George shrugged and swung shut the mini-fridge door.

"Good luck," called Mal as they exited the hotel room.

George followed Neil down the stairs.

"Can I grab some food from the kitchen on our way out?" asked George.

"Sorry, mate, can't stop. We're running late," replied Neil.

George stuck out his tongue at Neil's back as they reached the foot of the stairs. Neil turned left.

"Hang on, weren't we supposed to go right?" asked George, pointing his thumb back over his shoulder.

Neil shook his head and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "No, see, here's the directions," said the road manager. "'Down the stairs, left, second right, kitchen, service door, bus,'" he read.

"Lead on," said George dryly. The pair set off down the hallway.

"Is it my imagination," said George as they neared the second door on the right, "Or is the screaming getting louder?"

"Oh, I was hoping you wouldn't say that," moaned Neil. "That means I'm not imagining it."

"D'you think they've found the bus already?" asked George. "That's fast, even for our fans."

Both Liverpudlians jumped as they heard a loud shriek and a clangorous clatter from inside the kitchen.

"That doesn't sound good," muttered George.

More screams and crashes wafted under the kitchen door, along with smoke and the smell of burning pancakes.

"Definitely not good," agreed Neil, shouting to be heard over the racket.

They both jumped as something large and heavy smashed into the kitchen door. The screams had intensified to a Decibel level so high it was probably illegal in some countries.

"Run!" shouted Neil at the top of his lungs. He and George barreled away in the direction they'd come as the kitchen door popped off its hinges. A gang of preteen girls rushed through the gap and filled the hallway behind the Beatle and his associate as they raced down the hall to the lobby.

"Oh, it's you again!" said the receptionist in horror as George skidded into the lobby, shocked by the sudden change of flooring from carpet to polished marble. Neil grabbed George by the shoulders and propelled him back into a run.

"Sorry, gotta run!" George yelled over his shoulder to the bewildered receptionist as he burst out of the hotel into the dawn mist.

 

Mal paced in circles in the hotel room, glancing at his watch repeatedly and biting his lip. When it was finally time for him to go downstairs, he flung open the door, took one last glance back at the hotel room, and then hurried to the stairs. He jogged down them two at a time.

When he reached the foot of the stairs, his mouth dropped open in shock. The hallway looked as if it had been trashed by dinosaurs with five spikey tails each. Torn yellow wallpaper drooped lazily from the walls, and the carpet didn't resemble a carpet so much as a flattened hairball. A couple of girls still remained in the hallway. One had a black eye and was nursing a broken ankle; the other was kneeling, kissing the disgusting carpet, eerily murmuring the mantra, "He was here, he was here, he was here . . . "

Mal leapt over the girl kissing the carpet and ran down the hall and through the kitchen. He barely noticed the broken dishes, the disheveled and in some cases unconscious kitchen staff, or the pair of waiters frantically spraying fire extinguisher over everything.

As the roadie burst out of the kitchen, he found the tour bus being rocked side to side like a rowboat in the Atlantic during a thunderstorm. It was surrounded on all sides by weeping fans, a couple of whom had even climbed atop the bus's roof.

Mal shouldered through the crowd and managed to slip into the bus without being followed. Brian and Ringo were sitting as far from each other as was possible on the small bus. Brian was rubbing his temples, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Ringo was staring morosely at his Beatle boots.

Mal cleared his throat.

"Where are the others?"

Brian's head jerked up. Ringo's followed suit a second later.

"The others?" asked Brian.

"Weren't you supposed to go last?" asked Ringo.

"I did," said Mal. "Hasn't anybody else showed up yet?"

The look of horror on Brian's face told the roadie all he needed to know.

 

A/N: Reviews? Tell us what you think, what you want, what you hope, what you cherish.


	9. Somebody Had an Obsession

The Beatles. A Moste Mysterious Entitie, all thee know'st about these Creatures is that they are not thine nor anyone else's Sanctified Propertie. (That Includes Doctor Lennon 007).

A/N: Aaaaaand another chapter! You win the lottery, omgringo, and thanks again for the reviews! Also, mucho thanks to Macca40 on Wattpad and to singertobe on FanFiction!

 

"Third door on the left!" announced John proudly. He flung open the door and grinned cheekily at Paul as he stepped into what he thought was a room.

"That's not a room," warned Paul belatedly as John careened down the dark staircase to the basement. The bassist leapt down the stairs three-at-a-time after his friend, pulling the door shut behind him.

"You alright?" asked Paul when he reached the bottom.

"Never better," panted John, pulling himself up using the uneven stone walls. "Bit dark, though, isn't it?"

Paul reached up, grasping the metal pull-chain of a ceiling light.

"There you go," he said, yanking the chain. A single, bare bulb dimly illuminated the cellar.

"Look!" said John, pointing behind Paul.

"This isn't right," said Paul, scratching his head. "C'mon, let's go."

Just then, a sound akin to a jet plane taking off erupted somewhere above them.

Paul grimaced. "On second thought, I'd rather avoid those fans. What do you think, John? Er, John? Are you listening?"

John was staring at the room behind Paul's shoulder.

"That's a lot of clothes . . . ." said John.

Paul looked over his shoulder. "Whoa."

The basement was one large, dark, stone room that extended beneath the entire hotel. The whole space smelled of dust and mildew. The only natural light shone in through grimy window-wells. Arches and columns held up the old building above, and in between the arches were racks and racks of old clothes.

"Somebody had an obsession," said Paul, sounding slightly awestruck.

"What're these doing in a hotel basement?" wondered John.

Paul shrugged.

John ambled over to the nearest rack. The clothes didn't seem to be organized in any sort of theme, with flapper dresses next to Edwardian suits and Victorian corsets.

"We have to get out of here before the fans find us," said Paul, striding up behind his friend.

"Ooh, these are just smashing!" exclaimed John in a posh accent, pulling a particularly hideous pair of yellow knickerbockers and holding them up to his chest. "Perfect arm warmers!"

"How about we go out one of these window wells?" suggested Paul, gesturing to the top edges of the room.

"Nah, what if we get stuck and the fans recognize us?" John said dismissively. He added, "Try this out!" and held out a kilt to Paul.

"Well, if we're going to be stuck down here, might as well," said Paul with a grin.

 

As he sailed out the hotel doors, George was surprised to see that there were only one or two fans still in front of the hotel.

"They must all be inside or at the bus now," panted Neil, reading George's mind as he followed the Beatle out the door.

"What's our backup plan?" asked George as they raced down the sidewalk.

"Mal and Brian should come get us in the rental," said Neil, gasping for breath as the careened around a corner past a shocked newspaper hawker.

"You mean the rental John totaled yesterday?" inquired George grimly. Neil paled and stammered something indecipherable.

"Is there a backup-to-the-backup?" asked George desperately as they dashed across the deserted early-morning street.

Neil shook his head. "Didn't . . . think . . . we'd need . . . one," he wheezed.

They raced into an alley and doubled over to catch their breath.

"So what do we do now?" asked George.

"I dunno . . . hang out at a coffee shop, maybe?" proposed Neil.

"Yeah, when I want to get torn apart by screaming thirteen-year-old girls, remind me of that plan," snapped George sarcastically.

"Speaking of teenage girls," said Neil, pointing down the alley over George's shoulder. The guitarist whipped around to see two rather plump girls jogging down the alley, each sporting an "I Love George" button the size of a flattened tennis ball.

"Come on! Let's go!" hissed Neil.

"Relax, I've got a plan," muttered George. Then, he yelled, "Look! It's George Harrison!" pointing past Neil to the end of the alley.

The girls shrieked and barreled past George and Neil to the end of the alley, where they dashed across the street and out of sight.

"Not even a thank you," sniffed George. "Ungrateful young people."

Neil looked at his friend in awe. "Nice job! Keep that up and we don't have to worry!"

"No way is that gonna work again," said George resignedly.

"I hope the others are alright," said Neil.

 

"Oh, you look dashing!" said John happily, expansively gesturing to Paul's clothing. "Except you're technically not supposed to wear underwear under a kilt."

"You look simply marvelous yourself," gushed Paul. "I'll go back round this pillar and take them off."

As the bassist retreated around the pillar to take off his underwear, John straightened his lopsided "Votes for Women" sash and rearranged his straw boater.

"There we go!" exclaimed Paul, beaming as he returned from behind the pillar. In addition to the kilt, he was wearing a bright purple Edwardian waistcoat, a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, and a fake walrus moustache. He also had on a puce beret and threadbare black knee-socks.

"You need shoes, too," mused John, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He was wearing a Victorian wedding gown that was inexplicably missing the bottom half of its skirt, which seemed to have been ripped off at some point. Under the dress, the yellow knickerbockers were clearly visible, and he had rather haphazardly thrown on a small fur coat over the cream-coloured dress. Over the coat was his "Votes for Women" sash. He was also wearing bright pink high heels and the aforementioned straw boater.

"That's a good idea," said Paul. He stepped over a discarded zoot suit to get to the hat-wearing busts lined up against the back wall. "You should wear this instead of your boater," he advised, tossing a black flapper hat to the rhythm guitarist. John caught it by the tips of his figures and ecstatically replaced his boater, tossing the straw hat across the room.

"How do I look?" asked John. Paul looked up from rummaging through a disorganized pile of shoes.

"Jolly good," said Paul in a posh accent. "What do you think about these?" he inquired, holding up a pair of blue Wellington boots patterned with rubber ducks.

"Smashing," agreed John. He attempted to cross the room over to Paul, hobbling dangerously on the thin heels. "How on earth do women walk in these things?"

"What, Wellingtons?" asked Paul, sitting down to pull on the boots.

"No, heels," grimaced John as he teetered, dangerously close to toppling to the ground.

Paul suddenly looked up at John, the second boot dangling from the bassist's hand. John could practically see the cartoon lightbulb above his friend's head.

"I know how to get out," said Paul.

 

A/N: Reviews: the epitome of desire to a fanfiction writer such as myself. If you leave me one, Andorra may just spare you from their evil schemes . . . .


	10. SpiderBeatle

Oh, I know what Ringo would teach me: style! (and I still don't own the Beatles)

A/N: Chapter 10! Double digits! Thanks to Macca40 over on WattPad for all the support!

 

"What are we going to do?" moaned Brian. "We can't go anywhere in the bus, it's too recognizable and we might hit a fan, and god knows that would destroy the Beatles' reputation, but we can't get out, we'd be mobbed and that's far too dangerous, but how else can we go find the others?"

"Don't we have a backup plan?" asked Ringo, confused. "We always have a backup plan!"

"Lennon . . . ." Brian growled.

"Sorry?" asked Ringo.

"The backup plan was the rental car," said Mal despondently.

They sat (and stood in Mal's case) for a couple of silent, miserable seconds.

"We're going to have to do something," said Mal eventually. "It's either bus or foot."

"Sounds like we're stuck between a hard place and a harder place," said Ringo.

"Bus," said Brian decisively.

"Right-o," said Mal to Brian, and then to the driver, "Take it away, mate."

 

As the morning mist drained out of the alley, cars started to zoom by on the larger streets at either end. None of the arriving commuters noticed two young men with long hair crouched behind a dumpster in the alley.

"Sounds like a plan, then," said Neil, standing up and brushing himself off. George also stood up.

"Let's hope Brian and the others stay put," said George. "Are you ready?"

"I can't believe we're doing this," muttered Neil, "But yes, I'm ready."

"Let's get this party started!" exclaimed George. "One, two, three, GO!"

Neil and George raced around the dumpster and back the way they had come, zig-zagging through traffic as they dashed across the street and down another alley.

Several girls entered the alley from the opposite end and began to scream.

"JUMP!" yelled George. He and Neil both leapt into the air, grabbing the first-storey landing of the rusted fire escape above them. They hauled themselves onto the flimsy metal platform, the girls below trying to pull them down by their legs. One even managed to pull off George's left shoe.

Neil and George scrambled to their feet and legged it up the rickety staircase to the roof of the building. Once there, they paused for a breather.

"Which one's the hotel?" asked Neil, gesturing to the rooftops surrounding them.

"Two buildings that way," said George, panting.

"Thank God the first two are connected," said Neil. He and George hopped over the divider between the two rooftops.

"Ooh, look," said George, pointing to the street below. It was thronged with screaming, wailing, fainting fans.

Neil looked slightly queasy. "I'm fine over here, thanks."

"So now we just have to leap over two two-foot gaps, then we're at the hotel," said George. "From there, we can go back down the prearranged route, most of the fans've probably left by now."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" asked Neil.

"Absolutely not! But it'll be fun regardless," said George with a grin. Neil paled.

The screams suddenly grew louder down below. George leaned over the edge of the roof to take a look. Neil stared at his friend, alarmed.

"There's something going on down there," said George.

"Please don't fall! Brian would blame me," said Neil.

"It's –" said George, but then suddenly broke off and said something that they wouldn't allow on prime time television.

"What's wrong?" asked Neil. "Have you lost your grip?"

"It's the bus!"

Neil joined George at the edge of the roof, just in time to watch the tour bus careen out of the alley, scattering fans, and sail down the street.

"That's not good," said Neil.

"Quick, down the stairs!" ordered George. The pair bolted into the building through the thankfully unlocked door and zoomed down the stairs. Several businessmen entered their cubicles that morning convinced they had been hallucinating on the stairs.

George and Neil raced out of the building through the lobby and down the street after the bus. The bus itself wasn't going very quickly, as a conglomeration of fans had grouped around its front and didn't look like they were going anywhere.

"We're not letting you leave until we see the Beatles!" screamed one girl.

"We love you, Paul!" screamed another.

"No, John's the best!" screamed a third. She and the Paul girl were soon rolling around on the ground while George and Ringo fans egged them on.

"It's THEM!" shrieked a girl who couldn't have been more than nine, catching sight of George and Neil as they tried to get through the crowd.

George and Neil pushed their way through the crowd as quickly as possible, finally reaching the bus. The doors were flung open by someone inside, and they tumbled in, gasping for breath.

Mal slammed the door shut behind them.

"You look like you just came through a paper shredder," said Ringo, not bothering to get out of his seat.

"Gee, thanks," said George sarcastically. "Just the look I was aiming for."

Brian positively radiated relief. "Oh, you're back! We were so worried!"

George and Neil collapsed into their seats.

"Where are John and Paul?" asked Neil.

"We thought they were with you," said Brian.

"No, we thought they were with you," said George.

"So they're still out there!" exclaimed Ringo. "They don't stand a chance!"

 

"Perfect!" said Paul as he tied the zoot suit's coat together. It made a makeshift bag containing his and John's Beatle suits.

"Here," said John, pushing the end of a mahogany walking stick through the knot. "Now you can carry it over your shoulder."

"Brill!" enthused Paul. "You sure you don't want to take off those heels?"

"It won't be realistic otherwise," said John.

"I didn't know realism was a goal," said Paul dubiously.

John merely winked.

"I guess that means you're holding me up, then," said Paul.

"But you're not wearing any underwear!"

"So?"

John rolled his eyes and knelt down on all fours. "My dear, care to elevate yourself on me?" he asked in a high-pitched voice.

"Certainly," Paul snickered. He stepped up onto John's back carefully and reached for the grimy basement window.

"There we go!" he exclaimed triumphantly as he pulled open the window. It protested with a loud screech but fell open nevertheless.

"Hurry up, my back's killing me!" complained John.

Paul hauled himself out through the window, into the deserted alleyway on the opposite side of the hotel from the tour bus.

"Pass me the suits," said Paul, reaching back into the basement. John held up the bundle. Paul grabbed the end of the walking stick and pulled the makeshift bag out of the cellar.

"Coming?" asked Paul, reaching back into the basement. He heaved his friend out of the window. They sat on the cobblestones for a second before bursting out laughing.

"You look great!" giggled John.

"As do you!" laughed Paul. "I hope the press doesn't recognize us!"

The two Beatles doubled over laughing.

 

A/N: Subliminal (review!) advertising (review!) is (review!) useful (review!) sometimes (review!).


	11. The Grand Poobah Makes an Escape!

If I owned the Beatles, they would have made twice as many fabulous albums. The Beatles did not make twice as many fabulous albums. Therefore I do not own the Beatles (Logic!).

A/N: Thanks for sticking with this! This chapter's a bit short, but I promise the next one will be longer! Thanks to my lovely reviewers Macca's Little Teddy Bear on FanFiction and Macca40 and CityofStarlight on Wattpad!

 

Back on the van, George, Ringo, Mal, Neil, and Brian were planning what to do next.

"Where d'you reckon John and Paul got off to?" asked Mal, anxiously twiddling his thumbs.

"Probably still in the hotel," replied Neil gloomily.

"We can't go back in there!" exclaimed George, aghast. "They'll tear us apart!"

Brian moaned incoherently and rested his head in his hands.

"No need to worry, they're not in the hotel," said Ringo cheerily.

"How can you possibly know that?" asked Brian fretfully.

"Cause they're right there," said Ringo, pointing out the window.

Everyone whipped around to look where Ringo was pointing.

"I don't see them," said Neil. "Just a bunch of fans and a couple of street people."

"There they are!" shouted George. Then he did a double take. "What're they wearing?"

"You mean those two people are John and Paul?" yelped Mal, staring at the rather odd pair of people now slowly progressing toward the bus. "But . . . John's in a dress!"

Brian seemed beyond words as the Beatles' entourage watched Lennon/McCartney shoulder their way through the crowd. John seemed barely able to walk, hobbling with some sort of walking stick. Due to their unusual garb, fans seemed not to recognize them, instead moving aside rather warily for these strange personages.

 

"Make way!" John shouted at the crowd. "Batman's dying!"

He continued to wobble dangerously in his high heels, using the walking stick/suit storage bag to help himself maintain balance. Paul walked in front of him, pushing aside fans and making helpful siren noises.

"Out of our path!" crowed John. "Bow down to the Grand Poobah of Freedonia, or off with your heads!"

Paul switched to making trumpet noises. He cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound; unfortunately, this dislodged his fake moustache, which floated to the ground. He stared at it in consternation.

"It's THEM!" shrieked someone in the crowd.

John ran straight out of his heels as he and Paul made a break for it. They struggled through the seething mass of fans to the bus. Ringo and George flung open the door, through which John and Paul collapsed, grinning like lunatics. They exchanged a high-five, still lounging on the floor of the bus.

Silence reigned inside. Outside the screaming continued.

"Well," said Brian finally.

John stood up and brushed off his dress.

"What do you think?" he asked, twirling. "Am I ready?"

George snickered. "You look smashing. 'Cept your hat seems to be off kilter."

John straightened his flapper hat, apparently mortified.

"That's better!" said Ringo appreciatively.

Paul leapt up and offered his left elbow to John. With his right he held the walking stick bag over his shoulder.

"Care for a dance?" asked Paul with a wink and a smile.

John blinked rapidly and fanned himself with his hand. "Ooh, I'm flattered!" he answered in a shrill falsetto, linking elbows with his songwriting partner.

Paul lead John down the aisle, both with stately posture. They disappeared behind a curtain into the instrument storage area in the back of the bus.

"I guess they're changing," said Neil.

"Ready to go?" asked Mal.

Brian nodded. Whether his face was flushed bright red from embarrassment or anger was anyone's guess.

George grinned. "Let's get this show on the road!"

 

A few minutes later, the bus had finally escaped the fans and the city. George was trying to catch up on sleep, snoring softly as his head drooped toward Ringo's shoulder. Ringo pushed the guitarist away. George's head lolled to his other shoulder. Ringo, who was trapped by George in the window seat, stared out the window. Brian and Neil were talking in hushed voices in the back, and Mal was reading an Elvis fan magazine. John and Paul, now back in their Beatle suits, sat next to each other near the front, trying to avoid making eye contact. Every time they did, they dissolved into fits of giggles.

"Where are we headed?" asked Ringo, turning away from the window to look at Brian.

"Ipswitch," replied Brian, breaking off from his hushed conversation with Neil.

"Oh," said Ringo.

"Feel enlightened?" asked John snidely.

"I was just asking," Ringo said, turning back to the window.

Brian and Neil remained silent, except for the scratch of Brian's fountain pen on a pad of paper. Wind whooshed outside. The van bumped along the road. A crow cawed.

"Can we stop and get some tea?" asked John.

"We've only been on the road ten minutes," sighed Neil.

"Can you all please just shut up?" complained George, still sunk down in his seat with his eyes closed.

It was going to be a long drive.

 

A/N: Again, sorry about how short this one was! Remember, the more reviews I get, the longer the next installment will be!


	12. Dain Bramage

"Nay," he suddenly declared. "I must retreat into the gloomy bliss." And he descended into the chlorine-infested waters. They fomented and gurgled behind him, forming the words in drowsy bubbles: "Doctor Lennon Double-Oh Seven does not own the Beatles with an 'a'."

A/N: Happy Birthday! Beatles in a Beetle turns one year old tomorrow! Everybody sing the first line from the Beatles' "Birthday!" Or just hum. Or do nothing if you're in the middle of an urgent, secret CIA meeting. The usual shout-out to my reviewers: Thanks to Macca's Little Teddy Bear and the mysterious "Guest" on FanFiction (and yes, that is a Doctor Who reference in Chapter 11) and to Macca40 and CityofStarlight over on WattPad!

 

An hour into the drive, the atmosphere in the bus had relaxed somewhat. Mal was taking a quick nap in the back of the bus while Brian and Neil planned the next leg of the tour. George had woken up; he and Ringo were reading Mal's Elvis fan magazine. John and Paul were jotting down ideas in John's notebook.

"Alright, everyone, we're going to stop soon," called Brian loudly. The Beatles, who were closer to the front, turned around to look at him. Mal shook his head groggily and put on his glasses, pushing himself up in his seat.

"If you need to use the WC, now is your chance," said Brian. "We're not stopping again until we get to Ipswitch."

"Does that mean we get tea now, then?" asked John hopefully.

"If they offer it, of course you may buy some," said Brian.

"I'll go tell the driver," offered Mal. He trudged to the front of the bus and murmured something to the driver. "He says there's a gas station about five minutes away," Mal informed them.

"Who's getting off, then?" asked Neil.

"I will," said George. "I'd love a cuppa."

"I have to get off too," Ringo informed them.

"Why?" asked John.

"None of your business, Lennon," joked Ringo.

"You getting off, Eppy?" inquired Paul as the bus pulled into the otherwise deserted parking lot of a rather shabby gas station.

"Yes, I have to bribe the press to keep quiet about John cross-dressing in the streets of Bournemouth," grumbled Brian. "No thanks to you, I might add."

"Yeah, sorry about that," said Paul indifferently. He and John returned to their notebook.

The bus slowed to a halt. George, Ringo, and Brian all got up.

"Can you grab us some tea while you're out?" asked John.

"Come and get it yourselves," replied George.

"We're busy," said John.

"We could be writing another hit record, you know," added Paul.

Ringo shrugged. "Sure, I'll get you some tea, John. You too, Paul?"

"Yes, please!"

Mal, George, Ringo, and Brian all shuffled off the bus. Neil snatched the abandoned Elvis magazine from George's now vacated chair.

As soon as he stepped off the bus, Brian made a beeline for a payphone in a booth against the wall of the gas station. Mal, Ringo, and George all entered the store.

Mal and Ringo both headed to the back in search of the loo, so George was left roaming the aisles for snacks. He grabbed seven packets of crisps and headed up to the counter to get some tea, but he was distracted by an aisle devoted to Halloween decorations. George grinned as he snatched some costume accessories.

He nearly bumped into Ringo on his way to the counter.

"Come to get some tea?" asked Ringo.

"Yeah, and you?"

"Same. Say, what d'you want with a pile of hair and a pile of tan rubber?" asked Ringo, noticing the things George was holding.

"These," said George, holding aloft his soon-to-be purchases, "Are four Beatle wigs and four skull caps."

Ringo's eyes widened and his mouth dropped into a small "O."

"Quick, let's get this stuff before Mal sees," said George, ushering Ringo over to the counter. A wizened old man who couldn't have been taller than five feet stood behind it, peering over the cash register.

"We'd like to buy these, please," requested George, putting the crisps and the costumes on the counter. "And four cups of English Breakfast tea."

The man smiled toothlessly at George and Ringo before puttering about, pouring hot water into paper cups.

"And could you go quickly, please?" added Ringo, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

"Of course!" said the man in a high-pitched voice. He added a tea bag to each cup and carefully placed the lids on so that the tea bags' tags didn't fall into the water.

"Er . . . really, could you go as fast as you can? Not to rush you, but we're in a bit of a hurry," said George, drumming his fingers on the counter.

The man turned back to them and typed their purchases into his cash register slowly and deliberately. He got about halfway through when he looked up at them again and smiled broadly.

"You're the Beatles!" he chirped.

"Just half of them," replied Ringo modestly.

"Could I have your autographs?" the man asked eagerly. Ringo and George exchanged an incredulous look.

"For my granddaughter," the man added hastily.

"Okay," said Ringo. "Can I have something to write on?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the man, flustered. He searched around in the drawers under the desk. George glanced at his watch pointedly.

Finally, the man pulled an old receipt out of the drawer.

"Who should I sign it to?" asked Ringo.

"Joe," replied the man.

George raised an eyebrow.

"Your granddau— Ow!" yelped Ringo as George kicked the drummer in the ankle.

"To Joe . . . from Ringo Starr," muttered Ringo as he signed the receipt. He handed it back to the man.

The man held it out to George.

"Oh, fine," said George. He hastily signed the receipt. "Now can you please check us out?"

They finished the transaction as hastily as possible and shoved the Beatle wigs into a paper bag just as Mal emerged from the men's room.

"Heeeey Mal! Fancy meeting you here!" exclaimed Ringo as he and George whipped around guiltily.

"I've got to go see whether Brian's got everything sorted," said Mal. "Meet you back at the bus."

"Gear!" replied George a little too eagerly. "Let's go away now, Rings."

The drummer and lead guitarist returned to the bus as quickly as they could without spilling the tea. On the way past the telephone booth, they heard Brian fuming, "No, I will not pay that much to keep the news from leaking! . . . Do I want to keep out the news that George was playing Spiderman as well? What do you mean, George was playing Spiderman? Don't tell me he was dressed up too . . . ."

As they got on the bus, they heard John exclaim "Quota!" to Paul.

"Ooh, that's a good one," replied Paul appreciatively.

Ringo handed the two teas he was carrying to John and Paul. "Here you are!" he announced proudly.

"Ta," replied Paul. John grunted gratefully.

"What're you doing?" asked George, pausing on his way down the aisle to look down at John and Paul.

"Listing words that start with 'Q'," replied John as if this were the obvious answer.

"What're we missing?" asked Paul, holding up the notebook on John's lap for George to see.

"A purpose in life," replied George before continuing to his seat two rows behind them.

Soon Brian and Mal clambered onto the tour bus as well. Brian managed to slip past John and Paul, or maybe they didn't want to cross him when he looked likely to start tearing his hair out.

"Right! Time to go, then!" said Mal, walking down the aisle as the bus lurched into motion.

"Stop!" yelled John, snapping his right leg and arm into the narrow passage, blocking Mal. "You can't sit down until you give us another word starting with 'Q'!"

Mal frowned, scratching his head.

"Queen?" he suggested.

"Nope, got it," said Paul.

"Erm . . . quid?" Mal posited.

"Nah, we got that ages ago," said John.

"Let the man sit down, John," called Brian tiredly from the back. John twisted in his seat and stuck his tongue out at Brian. Mal took advantage of John's distraction and pushed aside the Beatle's arm, stepping over the extended leg.

"What about 'curdle'?" asked Ringo.

"That doesn't start with 'Q'," replied Paul in befuddlement, turning around to look at the drummer.

Ringo looked crestfallen. "It doesn't?"

"Better be careful, Ringo. If you keep chasing after parked cars you'll get dain bramage," snarked John.

"Aw . . . ."

Brian pulled a black eye mask over his face. "Don't wake me until we're fifteen minutes outside Ipswitch," the manager requested of Neil.

 

A/N: This one's one of the longest installments yet, to make up for last time's shortness. Yay!

The gloomy deep bubbles reformed one last time to reveal the final message to the awaiting awestruck heroes. Elfric and Belladonna frantically jotted down the next remark in their pretty palm-frond spiral-bound notebooks from £4.93 at select stores and resale outlets:

"And don't forget to review, my bonny friends!"

And then he left for good, and they had a picnic and a good time happy to be rid of him.


	13. I Am Sad Crumby Gypsy

[Insert awesome disclaimer here]: I don't own the Beatles!

A/N: Aaaand another chapter! Thanks so much to my awesome reviewers: the Mysterious Guest, singertobe, Macca's Little Teddy Bear and omgringo on FanFiction, and Macca40, shineonyoudiamond, and CityofStarlight on WattPad! Special thanks in particular to omgringo and Macca40 for your awesome reviews and PMs! Thanks guys!

 

Mal was the one who ended up waking Brian.

"What's the plan?" asked the roadie. "How're we going to get them to the hotel?"

Brian pushed his eye mask off and squinted against the bright midday light.

"Are we going to use a limo or are we going to bring them straight in with the bus?" asked Neil. "Because we need to know whether to tell the bus driver to meet the limo drivers outside town or not."

"Hey, Bri, when's lunch?" called George from the front, where he and Ringo were playing War.

"Ha!" called Ringo. "I got your queen with my king!" He slapped his winning card down on top of George's queen.

"Don't be late, I can't wait, 'till the moon turns blue," sang Paul in the back of the bus. Brian blinked fuzzily. When did John and Paul get from the front to the back? And when did they get their guitars out?

"That's terrible!" scoffed John. "'Till the moon turns blue? We're not Judy Garland!"

"No, there's two of us," replied Paul.

"Hey Eppy, are we gonna bring the guitars with us into the hotel or just leave them on the bus?" asked John.

"Oh, and are we going to meet with that local official or not?" added Neil. "You said you'd wait to decide, but we'll have to call him straightaway when we get there."

"We'll chance it with the bus going in, but we'll get limos to take them to the concert," replied Brian quickly, enumerating the answers with his fingers as he continued, "So no, we won't stop outside Ipswich. We'll have lunch in the hotel today, the last thing we need is another John-drives-away-from-the-restaurant-and-destroys-the-rental-car debacle. We'll have to wait for the usual press people to go away before we can eat, so lunch probably won't be until two. And you'll leave your guitars on the bus, we need to be at the theatre by 4:30 to play the first concert at six – no time to rehearse in the hotel room."

Brian took in a breath.

"What're the others' punishments for the glitter glue fight last night?" asked Ringo curiously.

"Don't remind him, you great sod!" yelped George.

"Grounded," replied Brian immediately. "John, Paul, and George are all confined to the hotel room after the concert."

A chorus of protest rose from the three unfortunate Beatles:

"Hey! That's not fair! We were in our rooms last night, and looked what happened!"

"How come Ringo gets to go out and we don't?"

"Objection! Your conclusion is based on insufficient evidence!"

Brian turned to John at his last remark, startled.

"Insufficient evidence? I saw you with my own eyes. As did Neil, Mal and Ringo," said Brian.

"Eyewitness testimony is really horrendously inaccurate," sniffed John. He played a G7 chord on his guitar. "Plus, you're all prejudiced witnesses. You want to get us locked away so we can't escape your grim clutches!"

"I'm not even going to deign to answer that," replied Brian.

"You just did." John crossed his eyes, stuck his thumbs in his ears, and waggled his fingers at Brian.

"We're getting near the hotel," called Mal.

"I can hear," replied Paul grimly. He and John got up and stowed their guitars in the back of the bus as the sound of screaming grew louder.

"Ooh, look at that sign, George!" said Ringo, pointing to a sign in the crowd.

"If you kiss me I'll swim across the Atlantic, George," read George dryly. "Well, I don't think I'd do it unless she offered to cross the Pacific."

They both smiled and waved. Several girls fainted.

The bus pulled up in front of a three-storey white building on a street of similar three-storey buildings, all jammed next to each other.

Brian looked alarmed. "Why aren't we going in the back door?"

"There is no back door," replied Neil.

John and Paul both paled, overhearing this as they returned from the back of the bus.

"You mean we're gonna have to get through that?" asked John incredulously, pointing at the seething crowd of sobbing girls.

"Unless you can figure out how to fly," replied Brian.

"I'll clear a path," offered Mal.

"I'll go in the back," said Neil. "You want to join me, Brian?"

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea," agreed Brian. "Stations, everyone!"

The Beatles rushed to get between Mal and Neil in the aisle.

The bus stopped in front of their hotel.

"Count of three – ready?" asked Brian. "One . . . two . . . three –"

Mal threw open the door and charged the crowd. Ringo, George, John, and Paul followed hot on his heels. Neil and Brian raced to keep up with them.

Mal, Ringo, George, and John collapsed into the hotel through the door.

"Where's everyone else?" asked George.

"I dunno, they were right behind me!" replied John.

Then Brian and Neil shoved Paul into the lobby.

"Outrageous! You can't just stop and sign autographs!" Brian was screaming at Paul.

Neil wandered over to the nearest uncomfortable armchair and fell into it. He fell asleep immediately.

"Come on! They've been waiting for ages, it's the least I could do!" complained Paul.

"You were endangering not only yourself, but also Neil and myself!" argued Brian.

John made a beeline for the pretty receptionist at the desk, but Mal intercepted him.

"I'll handle this one," said the roadie with a wink.

"Oi!" John complained to George as Mal strolled over to the desk. "I have to deal with the bald forty-something, but the minute there's a pretty girl he gets to take over?"

George shook his head. "For shame."

John ambled over to Neil.

"And George!" yelled Brian. George jumped as Paul slipped away gratefully.

"What've I done?" asked the youngest Beatle, nervously fingering the paper bag he was holding.

"This time," added Ringo unhelpfully.

"What's all this nonsense from the press about you pretending to be Spiderman?" asked Brian irritably.

"Oh, that'd probably be from when Neil and I tried to climb across the rooftops to get to the bus," replied George conversationally. "That it?"

"You weren't in . . . costume, were you?" asked Brian hesitantly.

George frowned. "'Course not."

"I'll check with Neil on that," said Brian, turning to look at the road manager. Unfortunately, he couldn't see past the crowd of five or six well-dressed, middle-aged hotel guests who had surrounded Neil's chair.

Brian, George, and Ringo watched in confusion as John and Paul ducked out of the group, grinning in exactly the way Brian didn't like.

Brian grabbed both of them by the scruffs of their necks and pulled them back through the small crowd to Neil.

Neil, still fast asleep, had been sprinkled with bread crumbs. A small, paper sign rested on his chest, softly rising and falling with his breathing. The sign had obviously been ripped out of a notebook, and it proclaimed, "I am sad crumby gypsy. Please money for my unborn kitens" in John's handwriting. A cloth hat lay on the ground at Neil's feet, open for change.

Brian turned to John with the same my-apple-was-filled-with-hot-sauce look Paul had sometimes. John really did love that look. As he poked Brian's nose, he said conversationally, "You know, Paul gets that exact look on his face sometimes, too! I wonder if you're related!"

Brian swatted away John's hand. "This is an outrage, Lennon! And don't you dare attempt to poke my nose!"

Neil woke up with a snort and shook himself off, dislodging the sign, which fluttered to the floor. Disappointed, the other guests left.

"Right! We've got the rooms!" called Mal from the other side of the lobby, holding aloft four keys. "A key for John and Paul, a key for George and Ringo, a key for me and Neil, and a key for Brian!"

As the Beatles and their travelling companions converged at the base of the stairs, several reporters tumbled through the hotel doorway, clutching their hats, scarves, and cameras.

"We're looking for the Beatles!" called one.

"We are too! Had any luck?" John yelled back. Brian shushed him.

"Over here! Come on up!" replied the manager to the reporters. They eagerly jogged after the Beatles up the stairs.

 

A/N: "Excuse me, excuse me? Fanfiction reader? Hello, you there? Hi! I just wanted to get your opinion on this story I read, 'The Beatles in a Beetle.' What'd'ya think about it, huh? What's your favourite colour? What do you call that collar?"


	14. The Great Flood

I don't own the Beatles! In fact, none of us can ever own anything! The world is a free place of love! Hallelujah Hare Krishna Flowers!

A/N: I may not be updating as frequently in the future as I have of late, but I'll have the next one in a few days! Buckets and buckets of thanks to the Mysterious Guest and omgringo on FanFiction and to CityofStarlight and Macca40 on WattPad!

 

By 2:30, the Beatles were tired of telling the press their favourite colours and what they would do when the bubble burst. Lunch had come and gone, but the reporters had refused to leave the suite where the Beatles were imprisoned until their next concert. Brian, Neil, and Mal weren't around to usher them out, either; first some local official had kept the managers away, then an angry man in a bowler hat had shown up and demanded immediate payment for his Volkswagen rental car.

"Or I'll sue!" he had yelled dramatically at Neil and Mal, waving a piece of official-looking paper in their faces. They had escorted him to wherever Brian was dealing with the local official, leaving the Beatles to fend for themselves against the reporters.

It was clear that either John or George was going to give way to the inevitable and get rid of the press. John was lashing out at the journalists at every possible opportunity ("What sort of women do you like?" "Ones who don't ask me annoying questions like that"), and the "Quiet Beatle" was retreating further and further into his shell ("What, in your opinion, is the Beatles' best record, and why?" "Mmm"). Paul was still posing for the cameras as usual, and Ringo was holding up fairly well.

John was the one who finally cracked.

"Do you have any hobbies outside of music?" asked a middle-aged reporter.

"Yes," replied John. There was an awkward pause, in which everyone in the room became quiet for different reasons. They looked at John.

The journalist cleared his throat. "And what are these hobbies of yours?"

"Magic," replied John with a straight face.

"Really?" asked the female reporter John had insulted earlier.

"Yes. Wanna see a magic trick?"

The writers and photographers exchanged glances. "Sure, why not?" replied the man who had originally asked the question.

"Excellent!" exclaimed John. "Which trick should I do?" he asked George in a stage whisper.

"How about the disappearing Beatles?" requested George dryly.

"Right, lads! Away!" ordered John. He trooped into the bathroom, the other Beatles not far behind. As Ringo stepped over the threshold, he swung the door shut behind them.

The reporters all stared at the door.

"What do we do now?" asked Ringo.

"Shh!" said the other three.

The reporters continued to stare at the door.

"I can't believe we just did that," said George with a grin.

"Shh!" said the others again.

The reporters blinked at the door.

"Was something supposed to happen?" asked one.

"We should go out the window!" suggested John in a whisper.

Paul, who was closest to it, peered out.

"Nah, it's too high up," he whispered back.

"Shh!" said George and Ringo.

A babble of conversation slowly picked up in the Beatles' suite.

"Put these on," whispered George, handing out a Beatle wig and skull cap to each Beatle.

Ringo smiled as John and Paul gaped appreciatively.

"This is brill!" exclaimed Paul approvingly.

"Why didn't I think of this?" mused John as he pulled the skull cap over his mop top.

"I thought we might spread a little more rumor in the press, this way," said George. "You know, they'll see that it looks suspiciously like a wig . . . ."

"Now shh!" muttered Ringo. The other three got quiet.

The press's conversation outside the bathroom got louder.

"I wish I had my guitar," said George wistfully.

John suddenly cackled. "I've got the perfect idea!"

"What's your idea?" asked Ringo.

John pushed himself past Ringo and George to where Paul was standing, next to the bathtub.

"Out of my way, McCartney," said John authoritatively.

Paul yelped as John stepped on his foot.

"Sorry," said John, not sounding sorry at all. He clambered into the tub.

"If I turn on the tub, they'll be really confused," he said.

"Won't you get wet?" asked Ringo.

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm turning on the tub, not the shower," said John as he turned on the water.

Fwoosh, went the shower. Water sprayed throughout the tiny bathroom, soaking John in seconds and spritzing the other Beatles.

The conversation grew silent in the other room.

"There's a noise!" exclaimed one in a whisper. "I wonder what'll happen now!"

They listened avidly to the shrieks coming from inside the bathroom.

"Do you think they're alright?" asked someone hesitantly.

"So what?" asked the female journalist dismissively, "Either way it's a good story."

The shrieks inside the bathroom intensified. The press waited anxiously.

Water started to leak under the door and soak into the carpet.

Inside the bathroom, Paul was standing in the tub. He filled up another complimentary cup with water from the now-overflowing bath and tossed its contents out the window.

"We have to keep bailing out the room, mates!" he cried joyously. "And enjoy the water!" he added, sticking his tousled, wet head out the window, Beatle wig askew. The girls below screamed and battled to get under the McCartney-induced rain.

The other three were preoccupied scooping up handfuls of water from the floor, where it was already ankle-deep, and splashing each other. Ringo yelped as George dove for the drummer's leg and pulled him to the ground. They both fell in a giggling heap on the floor, sloshing water out under the door. Ringo grabbed his wig and held it on.

Meanwhile, John reached into the tub and realized, to his delight, that he could aim the showerhead by reaching up and tilting it. He grasped the water source and aimed it straight at Paul.

"I've got you now!" yelled John gleefully.

"Gak!" sputtered Paul back, spitting out water.

The press were frantically taking notes when Brian, Neil, and Mal burst into the room.

"Did anyone here spill water or anything?" asked Mal. "We've had some dripping into our roo—"

He turned to look at the bathroom door. Brian and Neil also turned. They listened to the muffled shouting from the other side of the door. Mal could only stare at the water sluggishly travelling across the carpet.

"Out!" said Brian authoritatively. "I don't know what you've done, but please leave." He and Neil herded the reluctant press out of the suite.

Mal crossed the room and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Time to come out," he called.

He listened to the giggling and frantic shuffling inside the bathroom, smiling when he heard the shower being turned off.

Inside the bathroom, the Beatles all took off their wigs and frantically air-dried them as much as they could by shaking them vigorously.

"Remember, no shaking your heads!" whispered George. "Else they'll just fall off, and there's no fun in that!"

"How'll we keep them on during the bow?" asked Paul. "You know, at the end of the concert."

"For the first concert we won't do the bow," decided John. "We'll say we've forgotten."

"And the second one?" asked Ringo.

John shrugged. "Who cares? We know our hair is real."

The Beatles replaced their wigs, carefully straightened their sopping clothes, and left the bathroom triumphantly.

Brian, Neil, and Mal stood in front of them, glaring.

"How dare you plant ideas in their heads," said Brian furiously, pointing at John.

"Like a farmer!" said John wonderingly.

Brian fumed, "Go and change! Now!"

"Yes, mother," said John defiantly as the Beatles marched past their managers to their bedrooms.

 

A/N: Quick! Batman's dying, and the only way you can save him is to post a review!


	15. Genghis Khan

**"This is your opportunity to be a hero, Doctor Lennon 007!" he cried. "Tell them you don't own the Beatles!"**

**A/N: Thanks so much to the guest gabywalrus and the Mysterious Guest for your reviews! Plus to Macca's Little Teddy Bear for all the nice PMs!  And over on WattPad, thanks to Macca40 for everysink!**

* * *

At around three-thirty, the Beatles were lounging around their suite, alone for once. George, who had scooped up his deck of cards on the way out of the van, was playing solitaire with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The cards were a bit oddly curled from being soaked in the bathroom earlier but were still legible enough to read. Ringo was curled up in an armchair, reading a comic book. John was sprawled across the sofa, his feet up on one armrest and his head on the other, watching the television. Paul sat on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, leaning back against the couch at John's feet. He was immersed in a newspaper one of the reporters had left behind.

"I can't believe Brian didn't let us bring in our instruments," complained George as he scooped up his cards.

Paul folded up his newspaper. "I know! Here we are, doing nothing, when we could be practicing!"

"You want to be doing work now?" asked John, incredulous.

"Come off it, you like music as much as I do," said Paul.

"D'you want to play cards or something?" asked Ringo, slapping shut his comic book.

"I'd rather watch telly, if it's all the same to you," replied John. Ringo threw the comic book at him. It bounced off John's legs and hit Paul in the head.

"Ow!" complained Paul, straightening his wig.

"Your poor fake hair, that must really have hurt it," John sympathized.

For a while all they could hear was the weatherman on the television, George shuffling his cards, and the fans screaming outside.

"I know what we can do!" exclaimed Ringo.

"I'm all ears," said George.

"Ooh, can I be noses?" asked John eagerly.

"Let Ringo talk," admonished Paul. John wordlessly mimed zipping shut his mouth, locking it, and throwing away the key.

"Let's play charades!" suggested Ringo happily.

The other three Beatles looked at each other and shrugged.

"Sure, why not?" said George. He slid his cards back into their box.

"You go first, Rings," said John, pointing lazily at the drummer.

"Hang on, let me turn off the telly," said Paul. He stood up, walked over to the television, bent down, turned it off, and returned to his seat on the floor. John pulled out his notebook to keep score.

"I'll do that," said George quickly, reaching over and grabbing the notebook from John. "We're not letting you give Ringo negative seven thousand points again."

"Everybody ready?" asked Ringo.

"Fire away," said George.

Ringo pushed himself out of his armchair and stood in front of the other Beatles. He put his arms above his head, linking his hands to form a circle, and spun around in slow circles.

"Genghis Khan!" yelled John triumphantly.

George raised an eyebrow at John. Paul craned his neck around to look at the rhythm guitarist.

"Er . . . how d'you get Genghis Khan out of that?" asked Paul dubiously.

John looked crestfallen. "But . . . it's obvious, isn't it?"

George and Paul both shook their heads. Ringo, meanwhile, was spinning faster and faster.

"Er . . . a model?" suggested George.

Ringo shook his head as he continued to pick up the pace of his spinning.

"A – a dancer!" exclaimed Paul, pointing at Ringo excitedly. The drummer grinned as he tripped over his own feet and plummeted to the floor.

All four burst out laughing.

"I was right, wasn't I?" asked Paul in between giggles.

Ringo nodded. "You took your time, didn't you? I was supposed to be a ballerina, but I expect 'dancer' is close enough."

George snorted. "You're not a very good ballerina."

Ringo got up and ambled back to his chair, grinning.

"Your turn, Paulie," said John, grinning wickedly as he pushed Paul into the middle of the carpet with his foot.

Paul clambered up and stood with his back to them for a second. They watched him.

"Er, that it?" asked George.

Paul suddenly spun around on his heel, aiming a finger gun at John. Ringo jumped.

Paul stayed frozen, knees bent, feet twisted around each other, finger gun aimed at John.

"A bank robber?" asked George. Paul shook his head slightly.

"Your wig's off kilter now," said John.

"A fugitive?" suggested Ringo.

Paul shook his head again.

"You have to give us something else to go on," said John.

Paul thought for a minute, then put down his hands and started gyrating his hips slightly.

"An exotic dancer!" exclaimed Ringo.

"No, definitely not," Paul snickered.

"Humphrey Bogart from _Casablanca_ ," guessed George. Paul looked at him incredulously for a second.

"Genghis Khan!" yelled John. The other three giggled.

"Do something else," ordered Ringo.

Paul raced over to the other armchair and sat down it. He mimed driving a car.

"A reformed convict who's now a taxicab driver and an exotic dancer on the side?" asked George.

"It's not _that_ complicated," complained Paul.

"A magician?" asked Ringo. George and John stared at him until he squirmed slightly.

"Vroom, vroom," said Paul helpfully.

John tipped his head to one side. "Jack the Ripper?"

Paul groaned, "Imagine I'm going really fast in a sleek car."

"You're not allowed to talk!" complained Ringo.

"James Bond!" exclaimed George triumphantly.

Paul rolled his eyes. "Finally!"

He returned to his spot at the base of the couch. George got up and handed Paul the score sheet on his way to the middle of the room.

John peeked over Paul's shoulder at the notebook:

John: -3

Paul: 1

George: -3

Ringo: -3

"Hey, Ringo!" called John. "You, George, and I are all tied for last place!"

"Okay," said Ringo indifferently.

"Got something," said George.

Everyone else grew attentive as George positioned himself. The lead guitarist mimed holding a microphone and singing into it, legs splayed out to each side, his hips twitching forward with his right leg. He danced around strangely for a few seconds.

"Genghis Khan!" exclaimed Paul. John and Ringo laughed and George grinned, shaking his head. "Oh well, it was worth a try."

"You're Elvis!" said John suddenly.

George stopped dancing and pointed at John. "Bingo!"

John punched the air. "Yes!"

Paul hurriedly added up the points:

John: -2

Paul: 0

George: -3

Ringo: -3

The bassist handed back the notebook to George as John leapt into the middle of the room.

"Go on, then," prompted George.

John made a grumpy face, the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated frown. His eyebrows were bunched up as close to the middle of his face as he could get them. He put his hands on his hips threateningly and marched over to Paul in mock anger.

"Genghis Khan!" exclaimed Ringo. George and Paul both burst out laughing. John shook his head, still wearing his angry face. His Beatle wig twisted around, blocking off one of his eyes. He reached up and tugged the wig back into place angrily. He bent over Paul, glaring down at the smirking bassist. Then, John took his right hand off of his hip and wagged his finger in Paul's face, mouthing what appeared to be a silent rant.

"A schoolmarm!" tried Paul through his laughter.

"Close, but not quite!" yelled John in mock furor.

"Brian!" cried George. "You're Eppy!"

"Well done!" said John happily, clapping the youngest Beatle on the back heartily.

"Yes, well done, everyone," said Brian sarcastically from the doorway.

The Beatles looked up guiltily to see Brian, Neil, and Mal standing in the doorway.

"Time to go to the concert hall," said Mal.

"I've changed my mind," grumbled Brian. "You're grounded too, Ringo."

Ringo looked outraged. "I wasn't the one who was impersonating you!"

"It doesn't matter, you've been part of all their hairbrained schemes since the bathtub incident earlier," replied Brian, his words even more clipped and posh than usual.

"If anyone's curious, the final points tally was John: -2, Paul: -1, Me: -2, and Ringo: -4," said George conversationally, handing the notebook back to John.

"Congratulations, sir!" said John, shaking Paul's hand vigorously.

"Time to move!" said Neil impatiently. "Bus'll be pulling around the corner any minute now."

"Atten-tiioooon!" yelled John. The other Beatles scrambled into a line, standing ramrod straight. Paul tried to tickle George into breaking position, but George swatted his hand away before he had the chance.

"Ready . . . Quick march!" announced John. "Hup, two, three, fawar! Hup, two, three, fawar!" He lead the Beatles in their march past Brian and out the door.

"You see, we musicians can only count to four," he added cheekily as he passed the manager. "And is that a grey hair?"

Brian fumed his way after the world's most famous rock and roll band.

Neil and Mal exchanged a glance. Mal shrugged.

"At least they're leaving," said Neil hopefully.

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**My friends, a matter of great import has come to my attention: Reviewing is requested on this installment of Beatles in a Beetle. Good luck.**


	16. Word Associations

**The Beatles: So ethereally beautiful that they defy the mere concept of property.**

**A/N: Short chapter, but hey, it's a chapter! And thanks to all my fab reviewers: On FanFiction, The Beatles Honeydoll22, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, and the Mysterious Guest; on WattPad, CityofStarlight, Macca40, shineonyoudiamond, heroesforghosts, and SmilingDiana. Special thanks in particular to Macca's Little Teddy Bear and Macca40 - love you guys!**

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John led the way as the Beatles jogged down the stairs into the hotel lobby. Brian, Neil, and Mal followed a short distance behind them.

"Got everything?" called Brian.

"Yeah," replied Paul over his shoulder.

Mal and Neil raced around to the front. "I'll clear a path," offered Mal.

"Go ahead," said Ringo emphatically.

As they strolled past the receptionist, Paul shot her a cheeky salute and a wink. She blushed and hid behind the book she was reading.

John grabbed a rose from a vase as he passed. He twirled it in his fingers cockily.

Neil held the door open for them. The girls shrieked at the sight of their idols.

"Here you go! Run and get it!" yelled John, lobbing the rose into the crowd. A wave of fans sobbed as they charged the flower.

"Poor innocent plant," murmured Ringo sadly. "Whatever did it do to you, John?"

"It was insolent to me!" replied John.

"Don't even try to question that logic," suggested George to Ringo. Ringo nodded as John dove headfirst into the limousine waiting for them. George and Ringo both followed him. Paul paused to give the fans one last wave and smile before jumping into the car and slamming the door shut.

"I guess the others are taking the bus, then?" asked John as the limo pulled away from the hotel.

George nodded. "Sounds right."

"What should we do, then?" asked Paul.

"Bamboozle!" said John happily.

"What?" asked Ringo.

"Toast!" replied George deliberately.

"What are you doing?" wondered Ringo.

"You can't do that, it's more than one word," said John. "Anyroad, it's Paul's turn."

"Oh, I see what we're doing!" said Ringo.

"Crumpet," said Paul.

"Tea," replied Ringo.

"Golf," said John.

"Knickerbockers," said George.

"Wedding," replied Paul.

"Spiderman!" agreed Ringo.

"Rumplestiltskin!" exclaimed John.

"Where did that come from?" asked George.

"Too many words," said Paul.

"You've all gone mad," moaned Ringo.

"No, we haven't! Ooh, look at that lovely waterfuffle!" said John. "Obviously."

Everyone stared at him. Fans shrieked outside and banged on the windows.

John shrugged. "Obviously, I am on a higher intellectual plane than you lot."

"Yeah, you're obviously way higher than we are," replied Paul.

John giggled.

"What d'you reckon we'll do after the concert?" asked George.

"Probably answer fan mail," replied Ringo gloomily.

John snorted. "Only if you cave to Big Brother and actually do what Brian tells you to."

"We could play Monopoly," suggested Paul.

"I'll just beat you all, though, and where's the fun in that?" replied John.

"Ha! You think you can win?" replied Ringo. "You've got another thought running, let me tell you!"

"Thought running?" wondered George.

"It's three of us against one of you," said Paul.

"Yeah, but it's three of you against head of the Beatles," pointed out John. "Though, it is three Beatles against one Beatle, so who'll get beat, eh?" he mused as an afterthought.

Silence again reigned, broken only by a nearby fan screaming, "My heart is with you all!"

"Say, mister," said John, leaning over the limo driver's shoulder. "You seem to need some education on proper driving procedures."

The driver leaned away. "I already know how to drive, thanks."

"Well, reeducation, then," sniffed John. "You obviously don't know how to operate this machine properly."

"Oh, really?" said the chauffer angrily. "You think I don't know how to do my job, do you?"

"I was just saying, you could really take some advice from a professional such as myself –" started John.

The driver interrupted him. "You want to drive?"

"NO!" yelled Paul, George, and Ringo in unison.

John plopped back into his seat, disheartened. "Come on, I deserve another chance!"

"You really don't," replied George.

"We're here," said the chauffer. "Now get out, before I do something I'll regret later!"

"Thanks!" said Paul as he flung open the door. He led the charge on the Gaumont Cinema.

"Ready or not, here we come, Ipswich!" yelled John as the Beatles ran full tilt across the pavement and in through the back door of the theatre.

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**A/N: Reviews are one of the beautiful golden lost treasures of the Palace of Zanzerdooble! If you can find it in you to leave a review, you can renew the legacy of the holey king Markapple for perpetuity and beyond!**


	17. Edmund Younger

I own lots of Beatles records, and I have an ever-growing collection of Beatles biographies, t-shirts, bootlegs, posters, and other memorabilia. I don't actually own the Beatles themselves yet, but I have put in a bid on eBay for something called a Sir James Paul McCartney . . . we'll see if anyone outbids me! If they don't, apparently airfare and first week's worth of finest vegetarian cuisine are prepaid! (Though I'm not quite sure what I've bought if it needs to eat . . . .)

A/N: Sorry, I know, it's another short chapter. The next few aren't going to be super long. But they'll be funny, I promise! Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers: on FanFiction, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, The Beatles Honeydoll22, the Mysterious Guest, and omgringo; on WattPad, Macca40 and CityofStarlight. May the Beatles be with you!

 

The next several hours passed by rather blurrily for the Beatles. They were shunted from dressing room to rehearsal to dressing room to rehearsal to dressing room to concert in a rather dizzying fashion. As they trooped off the stage after the first concert, sweaty but pleased with themselves, they were intercepted by Brian.

"What did you just do?" asked the manager furiously.

Ringo cocked his head to one side.

"Scratched my nose," replied John, lowering his hand from his face. "No need to worry, it's perfectly normal behaviour."

Brian growled. "The Beatle bow!"

Paul raised his eyebrows. "No, we didn't do the bow."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Brian.

"Sorry, we forgot," said George. "Now can we relax, please?"

"No, you have to meet Mr. Edmund Younger," replied Brian.

"Why?" inquired Ringo.

"He's the sewage director of the Ipswich Corporation," said Brian.

"What does he want with us?" asked Paul.

Brian sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "I haven't the foggiest. But he's in your dressing room, waiting to give you a hearty slap on the back."

George made a face at Brian as they pushed down the cramped hallway and into the dressing room. The dressing room itself was filled with people – reporters, makeup artists, fans, models, and a middle-aged man with large sideburns and a jovial smile.

"Hello!" said the man with the jovial smile. "I'm Edmund, Edmund Younger, head of the sewage treatment plant for the Ipswich Corporation."

"What happened to the older one?" asked John.

The man blinked at him, apparently nonplussed. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Did you off him to get the job?" inquired George, catching on.

"Sorry about them," Paul hastily interposed, grinning. "I'm Paul, Paul McCartney, head of the bass department of the Beatles Corporation." He extended a hand to Mr. Younger, who tentatively shook it.

"Yeah, you're definitely on the base level of the corporation," snarked John.

"Oh, shut up," replied Paul.

"So, what do you do at the sewage treatment plant, then?" Ringo asked Mr. Younger, the latter of whom was looking more and more flustered. "You don't look very dirty."

"I operate in an administrative capacity," replied Mr. Younger.

Ringo frowned.

"That means paperwork," added Mr. Younger condescendingly.

"But doesn't the paper get dirty?" wondered Ringo.

"Anyroad, what brings you to our 'umble dressing room, Mr. Edmund Younger, sewage treatment plant manager for the Ipswich Corporation?" asked John, smiling and widening his eyes, tucking his chin in toward his neck.

"My daughter is a great fan of yours," said Mr. Younger, sounding as though he had begun to question his daughter's judgement. "I've come to get your autographs for her."

"Why isn't your daughter here, if she's the fan?" asked George.

"She couldn't come, she's got a school play tonight," replied Mr. Younger.

Paul looked disappointed. "Your daughter missed a once-in-a-lifetime chance to meet her idols for a school play? And she's not even coming to the concert?"

Mr. Younger's face grew rather stormy. "At least one person in this country has her priorities straight."

Brian, who had been talking to Neil in the back corner, briskly strode over to the Beatles.

"Here you are, boys," he said, hastily shoving a photograph of the Beatles into Paul's hands. "Sign this for Mr. Younger's daughter."

The Beatles congregated around the photograph and quickly signed it. As George added his John Henry to the picture, a sudden flash of light temporarily blinded him. He blinked to see a photographer standing in front of him.

"For the Evening Star," said the photographer by way of explanation. "We're documenting Mr. Younger's struggle for promotion in the Ipswich Corporation."

George drew in a sudden breath. "Oh, I see why you've come here! You want publicity!"

Mr. Younger looked shocked. "How dare you!"

George quickly added the rest of his signature to the photograph and thrust it into Mr. Younger's hands.

"Tell your daughter we're sorry she couldn't make it," sneered George.

"Thank you very much," said Mr. Younger contemptuously. "I'll be leaving now. Good luck at the concert."

"Bye Edmund!" called John after the sewage treatment plant manager's retreating back. "Still wonder what happened to the first one," he muttered to Ringo.

"There's someone else I'd like you to meet," said Brian, herding the Beatles over to a different part of the dressing room.

"Lord, give me patience," muttered George in Paul's ear.

"Let's hope this is the last one," murmured Paul in reply.

 

A/N: A simple choice lies before you: To review or not to review; that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/the slings and arrows of outrageous hilarity,/or to take keyboard against a sea of mirth/and by reviewing, enjoy it.


	18. Model Behaviour

I own the Beatles! And I always lie! (Figure that conundrum out and I will give you candy. Not really. But then again, I always lie . . . .)

A/N: A new chapter! I've got another fic coming once this one's done, too! (Teaser: it's going to be called "The Escape of the Nerk Twins.") Thanks so much to all my reviewers -- your feedback makes this possible! On FanFiction: singertobe, omgringo, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, and the Mysterious Guest; on WattPad: InmylifeIloveLennon. Special shout-out to Macca40 for giving me the idea for this installment!

"Boys, this is Mary Johnson," said Brian as he led the Beatles to a young woman on the far side of the room. "You'll have to introduce yourselves; I have to sign a reimbursement agreement with a certain rental car business owner." He gave John a parting frown, to which John responded with a Cheshire cat grin. 

"Hello," said Mary Johnson elegantly. She held out a pale, long-fingered hand. "I'm quite a fan of yours."

Paul shook her hand dazedly. "Paul McCh- McAr—you know what, forget it. Doesn't matter anyroad."

She laughed, a sound like wind-chimes and birds on a spring day. "A pleasure."

"But you already knew his name, didn't you? Being a fan and all," Ringo pointed out.

Mary Johnson smiled, her perfect white teeth lighting up the room, or so it seemed to Paul. His eyelids drooped slightly.

George looked rather alarmed at his friend's behaviour. Ringo seemed slightly bewildered. John was hiding his mouth behind his hand, trying to stop himself from laughing.

"How can I help you?" asked Paul, miserably failing at suavity. Instead, he sounded like an overexcited teenager, finally plucking up the courage to talk to the popular girl whose locker was across the hall.

Mary Johnson laughed. "You see, I'm an aspiring model –" she started.

Paul interrupted her. "I can see that; you're beautiful," he murmured, then added hastily. "Sorry, sorry, keep going."

"I was wondering whether you could tell me anything about the London entertainment business," she asked, leaning a little closer to Paul. He stared at her high cheekbones, red lips, and shimmering eyes.

John stuck his hand between their faces and snapped his fingers. Paul blinked, and Mary Johnson turned to look at John, affronted.

"Anybody home?" asked John.

"What are you doing here, John?" asked Paul dazedly.

George and Ringo exchanged an incredulous glance.

"Er . . . he's been here the whole time, Paul," said George.

"Really?" asked Paul. "I hadn't noticed."

Ringo buried his face in his hands. "You're making a fool of yourself, Paul," he muttered, but Paul seemed unable – or unwilling – to hear him.

"My dear," said Paul, taking Mary Johnson's hand in his own, "May I help you with this advice?" He knelt and kissed her hand. She smiled triumphantly.

George looked at John worriedly.

John grinned and gave George an everything's-under-control double thumbs-up. Then the rhythm guitarist yelled, "Heel!" and grabbed the back of Paul's jacket, hauling him away from Mary Johnson.

The model looked shocked. "What are you doing?" she asked. John scrunched up his face in contempt at her.

"You've disrupted the training programme! You might've set him back for weeks!" yelled John in mock furor.

"Training programme? I'm afraid I don't understand," said Mary Johnson.

"I don't either," added Ringo.

"You can't just keep any old tiger as a pet! You have to train them," said John.

"Tiger?" asked Mary Johnson and Ringo simultaneously.

"Yeah," said John. "See?"

Paul shook his head a little to get rid of the fuzziness that was currently hanging over his brain. He couldn't do this if he were staring at Mary Johnson, so he decided to focus on George instead. He growled at the lead guitarist. The reporter from the Evening Star frowned, seeing that Paul's hair seemed to be askew.

George looked distinctly unimpressed. "That it?"

"I'm training him to be calm, not aggressive," said John. "Watch this, though!"

John plopped down on the dressing room floor and scratched Paul behind his ears. Paul sat down next to him and made the requisite purring noises.

Mary Johnson snuck out of the dressing room, but no one seemed to notice.

"She gone?" asked John after a second.

"All clear," replied George. "You can get up now."

John and Paul leapt up.

"Thanks, mate," said Paul. He reached up and pretended to scratch the back of his neck; in fact, he was straightening his wig.

"Anytime," replied John with a cheeky wink.

 

A/N: Time is running out! Post a review below to help John McClane, Inspector Clouseau, and Ferris Bueller join forces to save the Beatles from an army of miniature poodles! Every little bit of support counts :0)


	19. Pre-Show Pep Rally

**If I owned the Beatles, I would be furious with Michael Jackson for buying all the Northern Songs' rights! I still am, actually, but not as much as if I owned the Beatles (which I don't, in case you skipped the last eighteen disclaimers but decided to read this one for some odd reason).**

**A/N: This chapter is really short - my apologies. But it exists! Thanks so much to heroesforghosts on WattPad for the binge-read and the wonderful review - this early post is for you! Also, whole ballroomsfull of gratitude to my other reviewers: on FanFiction, the Mysterious Guest, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, and omgringo; on WattPad, the ever-amazing Macca40. Thanks guys!**

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John and Ringo were soon accosted by the _Evening Star_ reporter; George and Paul tried to slip away, but were cornered by a trio of makeup artists, who were determined to "fix them up" before the next show. Paul and George spent several minutes trying to convince the makeup artists that really, they didn't need any more makeup.

Finally, Ringo saw Paul nervously scratching his wig. Alarmed, the drummer turned to John, but John was otherwise occupied.

"Did anything about America impress you?" asked the reporter.

"Yes, the room service was fantastic," replied John.

Ringo turned fretfully back to George and Paul. He could feel his palms sweating. George bugged his eyes out at Ringo – _please, get us out of here before they find out we're wearing wigs!_

"You really do need some touching up around the nose –" persevered one of the makeup artists, but she was interrupted.

"EVERYBODY LISTEN UP!" bellowed Ringo at the top of his lungs. The room instantly silenced. Ringo cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Alright, we need to have our . . . erm . . . thing," said Ringo, hastily moving on to his next point, "So if you all could, you know, er . . . start moving along, that'd be great. Erm . . . it was nice having you," he finished rather lamely.

Conversation began again as if there had been no interruption.

"EVERYBODY SHARRUP!" yelled John, coming to his friend's aid. The room was suddenly as quiet as a tomb. Everyone stared at John.

"Get out! We need to have our pre-show pep rally!" ordered John.

"What do you do in your pep rallies?" asked the reporter from the _Evening Star_ excitedly, flipping to a clean page in his notebook and holding his pen at the ready.

"Imbibe lots of alcohol and pray to our pagan gods," replied John promptly. "Now leave!"

Reluctantly, the stage crew, press, and every other non-Beatle trooped out of the room, leaving the four young men in peace at last.

"Phew," sighed Paul. "You saved us there."

John raced to the door and locked it behind the last straggling photographers.

"Imagine if they'd discovered our wigs!" said George with a grin.

"You might be laughing now, Harrison, but you weren't so cocky earlier," replied Paul, wagging a finger at George.

"Let's see how long it takes Eppy to notice we've locked ourselves in here," said John with a malicious smirk.

They stood in silence for a few seconds. Paul whipped out a comb habitually and turned toward the mirror. He tried to comb his wig, but instead the comb got caught on the coarse fake hair and pulled it over his face. The other three Beatles chuckled as Paul pulled the wig back into position red-facedly.

"Does anyone want to play cards or anything?" asked Ringo. "That is, if we aren't gonna just sit here and drink alcohol and pray like you said, John."

John shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat, Rings."

Ringo looked flummoxed. "What do you want to do with wood?"

* * *

 

**A/N:  [Sad, moving music plays in the background of the Ken Burns-style slideshow] And so, Colonel Muffin the Apple passed away from congestion on March 111, 3042.  He died not only for the preservation of his own reviews, but so that others might also have the wonderful opportunity to review FanFiction.  Will we carry on his legacy, continuing to review?  Or has he died in vain?  Only time will tell . . . .**


	20. The Wrath of Brian

"Do you or do you not own the Beatles?!" exclaimed Barty Crouch Senior, spit flying from his mouth.

Doctor Lennon 007 shifted uncomfortably. "Can I answer that question on a later date?" Crouch growled. "Fine, fine! I don't own them! Happy?"

A/N: Happy Beatles-in-a-Beetle-update-day! First off, Beatlemaniacs United needs a George fan - whether you're a George fan or not, visit us here: topic/162338/123461362/1/#125057953. Also, "The Escape of the Nerk Twins" will soon be on an electronic device near you - I'll release the first chapter the same day I finish "Beatles in a Beetle." Finally, thanks so much to my reviewers: On FanFiction, the Mysterious Guest, omgringo, and Macca's Little Teddy Bear; on WattPad, heroesforghosts and Macca40.

 

An hour and a half later, an overall pleased Brian Epstein was headed back to the Beatles' dressing room, a spring in his step for the first time since John's terrible driving in Bournemouth.

Nothing's gone wrong in over an hour! he thought happily. Maybe they've finally stopped acting up.

As he rounded the corner, though, his naïve bubble of hope was abruptly popped. The former occupants of the dressing room – reporters, makeup artists, dancers, and just about everyone else except the Beatles – had occupied the hallway, leaning against the walls or sitting on the floor and chatting.

"Where are the Beatles?" Brian asked the nearest photographer urgently.

"In the dressing room," replied the photographer. "Where they've been locked away for the last hour and a half."

Brian heaved in a deep breath. It's not the nice photographer's fault, Brian, he told himself. Don't take out the boys' . . . issues on him. [A/N: Three pages of expletives deleted to keep the ratings down.]

Unfortunately, Mal and Neil were both attending to other duties; that left only Brian in charge of getting the boys to open up their dressing room.

Brian shoved past the nearest clump of giggling makeup artists. Standing in front of the entrance to the dressing room, he raised a fist to knock on (or quite possibly down) the door, but it swung inward before he had the chance.

"Hello, Eppy," said John Lennon. "Fancy meeting you here!" He extended a hand.

Brian shook John's hand while yelling, "What have you done this time, Lennon? Locked out the press?"

"Yes, actually," replied John. "How did you know?"

Brian yanked his hand away from John's, suddenly realizing what he was doing. "Why am I shaking your hand?"

"I don't know, do I?" said John. "That was your decision."

Brian opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

"I'm off to the loo," explained John. "The others are in there." He jerked his head toward the dressing room behind him.

Seeing that Brian wasn't going to move or say anything, John pushed past him into the hallway, saying, "Excuse me, Bri."

Brian stared after the rhythm guitarist for a few seconds before entering the dressing room, pulling the door shut behind him with a resounding snap.

Paul and Ringo looked up from the game of Hangman they were playing on John's notepad. George continued to practice his guitar in a corner in the back, paying no heed to the manager.

"Oh, hi, Brian," said Paul. "I see you got in alright, then."

Brian fumed silently for a second.

"John must've let you in," mused Ringo. To Paul, he added, "What about 'c'?"

Paul shook his head. "There's your second leg." The bassist added an additional leg to the partially formed stick figure on the notepad.

Brian decided to use his words. "George!"

George slowly raised his eyes from his beloved guitar. "How can I help you?"

"What did you do? Why are you locked away in here?" yelled Brian.

George raised an eyebrow. "Because we wanted to have some time to ourselves."

Brian broke. "I've had nothing but trouble from you four since John's driving escapade in Bournemouth! You have been irresponsible, in—"

"There are only three of us at the moment," pointed out George.

"I dunno, I thought the press conference yesterday went pretty well," said Paul. "To be completely fair, that is."

"What've I done?" asked Ringo. "I haven't started any of this!"

"You should go find John and blame him," suggested George.

"Will you listen to me for once?" yelled Brian.

"Actually, you know what? I'll go find him for you and give him a good telling-off," offered George. He stood up and handed his guitar to Brian. "Be careful with my guitar, and make sure I get it before we go onstage."

The youngest Beatle strolled out of the dressing room nonchalantly, hands in his pockets, whistling "And I Love Her". The other three occupants of the room stared at his back until the door swung shut behind him.

Brian turned to glare at Paul and Ringo, fire in his eyes and a growl forming in his throat.

"Uh-oh," said Ringo.

 

A/N: Please, sir, can I 'ave a review? 'S not much to arsk, I'm a very 'umble person, but I'd be much obliged if you'd give me just the one!


	21. God Save the Queen/The Bet

**Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls a funeral gong for my ownership of the Beatles that ne'er was and ne'er will be.**

**A/N: Lotsa author's notes this chapter! Firstly, special thanks to Macca40 for helping me brainstorm the second part of this chapter. Also, thanks to all my other fab reviewers: On FanFiction, Macca's Little Teddy Bear and the Mysterious Guest; on WattPad, heroesforghosts, shineonyoudiamond, MasterofFire, and cityofstarlight. And thanks so much to everybody who read New Year's Eve, 1964! I didn't expect to have so many of you read my silly little oneshot!**

**Secondly - we're nearing the end! This is the second-to-last chapter, and Chapter 22 should be up (tentatively) on Friday! But Escape of the Nerk Twins will have Chapter 1 up then as well :0) See the A/N at the end of this chapter for an EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW of that pseudo-sequel!**

* * *

George frowned as he paced around another corner in the backstage hallways of the Gaumont Cinema. John hadn't been in the bathroom (no surprises there), but he didn't seem to be anywhere else, either. Hands in his pockets, George started down the latest white-walled hallway.

"John?" he called. "Where are you?"

"Harrison!" hissed a voice.

George stopped dead in his tracks. "John?" he asked, slowly spinning in a circle. White walls, grey floor, white ceiling, brown door to janitor's closet – that was all he could see.

"Anybody else out there?" whispered the voice.

George shook his head, then realized that John couldn't see him. "No," he replied, peering down the hallway.

A hand shot out of nowhere, grabbed George's arm, and dragged him into the janitor's closet. The person's other hand pulled the door shut behind him with a miniscule _snap_.

George blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. "What was that for, John?"

"Shh!" muttered John. "We have to whisper in here."

"Okay," said George dubiously, raising an eyebrow. Then, he realized that John couldn't see the raised eyebrow, so he gave up on that tactic. "What's going on?"

"I need your help with something," whispered John.

"Why me?" asked George in a low voice.

"Paul might tell Brian, and we all know Ringo can't keep a secret," reasoned John.

George shifted his position and started as his foot landed in a bucket full of water, but John seemed not to notice. "Fair enough. What's the plan?"

* * *

Half an hour later:

Paul and Ringo reached a fork in the hallway.

"I'll go right, you go left," suggested Paul.

"Okay," agreed Ringo. "Good luck!"

"Yeah," replied Paul. "We have to find them soon, we're going onstage in twenty minutes!"

"If we're late, Brian's going to ground us for the rest of the tour," moaned Ringo.

"You joking? He'll ground us for the rest of the millennium," answered Paul darkly.

Ringo waved farewell to him as they went their separate ways.

As Paul advanced down the hallway, the only sound he could hear was his Beatle boots echoing off the linoleum floor. Then, he heard something else. Someone was breathily humming "God Save the Queen."

Paul only knew one person who could hum "God Save the Queen" that weirdly. He followed the sound to an inconspicuous, narrow brown door about two meters away. He pulled it open.

George blinked at Paul nonchalantly from his seat on a large toolbox. John, leaning against the wall, continued humming and drawing something on the back of the "sad crumby gypsy" sign from earlier.

"What're you doing, then?" asked Paul.

John stopped humming and looked up at Paul with the famous "Lennon stare."

"Humming the national anthem while drawing a creepy eye," replied John, flipping around the paper to show Paul his drawing of a creepy eye. "See?"

Paul's already arched eyebrows shot up even higher. "What would the press think if they found two Beatles cuddling in a dark closet?"

"That's not what you said last night," replied John cheekily.

Paul and George both rolled their eyes.

"Listen, we have to go onstage in fifteen minutes," said Paul. "We've got to find Ringo and get our guitars before then."

"What're you waiting for, then?" asked George, leaping up and pushing himself past Paul. "Come 'ed!" he added, beckoning, as he set off down the hallway.

Paul eyed John suspiciously. "What were you two talking about, anyroad?"

John made a V sign for victory. "Victory at all costs," he blustered in a surprisingly good Winston Churchill impression. "Without victory . . . there is no survival."

With that, John darted past Paul and skipped down the hallway after George.

Paul looked at the toolbox forlornly. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me anything, either, are you?"

The toolbox didn't say anything.

Paul sighed and followed his friends back down the hall.

* * *

Ringo careened around another corner, glancing at his watch fretfully.

 _How am I going to find everyone and get onstage in twelve minutes?_ he wondered hopelessly. However, his train of thought was cut off abruptly as he ran into someone.

Ringo and the someone both staggered backward.

"What are you doing?" asked the someone, who Ringo now saw was Brian Epstein.

"Looking for the others," replied Ringo, glancing around as though he expected his bandmates to pop out of the walls.

Brian's eyes bulged. "You mean you and Paul split up? Of all the idiotic ideas . . . ."

"In our defense –" started Ringo, but he never got to finish what was sure to be an impassioned plea for forgiveness.

"Hello everybody!" yelled John, racing around the corner, brandishing his guitar. "Ready to take Ipswich by storm?"

George and Paul followed on his heels, armed respectively with a Rickenbacker and a Höfner. They were both grinning widely.

John skidded to a halt when he saw the stormy expression on Brian's face, abruptly backpedaling on the slick linoleum floor and nearly falling over. George and Paul only saved themselves from toppling to the ground by grabbing John's shoulders for balance.

Paul pulled a pair of drumsticks out of his back pocket with his right hand, his left still firmly clamped to his bass. "Here you are, Rings!" He held them out to the drummer, who pulled them out of Paul's hand slightly suspiciously.

"You haven't done anything to them, have you?" he asked, holding them up to his face and examining them carefully.

Paul had the decency to look mildly offended. "'Course not!"

George looked back and forth between John and Brian, who seemed to be engaged in a staring-contest-to-the-death. John snorted loudly, but Brian didn't bat an eyelash. For a lack of anything else to do, George looked at his watch.

"We've got nine minutes to get onstage," the youngest Beatle warned.

"Let's go, then," said Paul. He and George started off down the hallway, Ringo right behind them. When it became clear that John and Brian weren't going to follow them, they reluctantly trooped back to the rhythm guitarist and the manager.

Finally, Brian broke the silence. "Your wife called," he said steadily.

John paled. The manager continued, "She wants to know why you spent so much money on a dilapidated Volkswagen." Although Brian wasn't smiling, the Beatles could all tell that he was relishing every second of watching John's face change colour. After cycling through several strange shades of cream, purple, red, and green, his visage finally settled on an ugly shade of puce.

"Seven minutes," warned Ringo.

John leaned closer to Brian, their noses nearly touching. "I've an offer for you," said John softly.

Brian raised an eyebrow. "Very well; what is it?"

"I bet you the cost of that car that our fans will be totally silent for at least one second of our concert," murmured John, barely audible to Paul, George and Ringo.

Brian smirked. "That's impossible."

"Are you taking the bet?" asked John.

Brian nodded. "I haven't got anything to lose."

John gave Brian the Lennon stare for another second before grinning widely and ducking around the manager.

"Right, lads, away!" he called to his bandmates.

They raced down the hallway, toward the stage and the sound of screams.

"Where we going, Johnny?" shouted Paul from behind him.

"To the toppermost of the poppermost!" yelled John.

And with that, the Beatles burst onto the stage, under the bright spotlights, looking out over a dark room filled with joyous, screaming fans.

* * *

**A/N I: The more you review, the more I smile! The more I smile, the more I write! The more I write, the more you review! (It's a vicious cycle.)**

**A/N II: And now, for an exclusive preview of "Escape of the Nerk Twins" (coming this Friday to an electronic device near you):**

As John Lennon and Paul McCartney passed the corner of the remote gas station, a shimmer of silvery blue caught Paul's eye. He turned to see a battered Ford Anglia languishing in the shadow of the building. His mop top tossed about by a fresh gust of Highland wind, John also looked over at the old car.

They exchanged a pointed glance before walking over to more closely inspect the car. Paul was sure John also saw the handwritten "For Sale" sign stuck to the inside of the dirt-speckled windscreen.

Paul turned to John.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Paul.


	22. Step in Time

**Okay, if by this time you still don't know that I don't own the Beatles, then all my fab disclaimers have obviously been wasted on you. *Sniff sniff***

**A/N: It's the last chapter! Thanks so much, everybody, it's been a truly wild ride! Also, Escape of the Nerk Twins is up now! Come and read it! Thanks so much to all my wonderful reviewers since last time: on WattPad, Macca40, heroesforghosts, MasterofFire, RingosOctopus, and Dreamlovegood901; on FanFiction, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, the Mysterious Guest, and the guest Peyton!**

* * *

The last note of "Long Tall Sally" faded quickly under the screams of the fans. Paul started to pull his bass over his head, preparing to race offstage, when John leaned in toward the microphone.

"Now, for our very last number," started John. Paul had a very minor panic attack as he glanced, alarmed, from Ringo to George. Ringo looked just as baffled as Paul was, but George was grinning mischievously.

John continued, "We'd like to play one of our favourites." He grinned in exactly the same way George was. "We heard it in a film that came out a couple of months ago, but we had a more . . . rock 'n' roll take on it." The rhythm guitarist turned to look at George and Paul, where they shared the second mic. "Ready?"

"No!" said Paul loudly, but John ignored him. He and George began to sing and play:

"One, two, three, fawar!

Kick your knees up,

Step in time,

Kick your knees up,

Step in time,

Never need a reason,

Never need a rhyme,

Kick your knees up,

Step in time!"

The entire audience, along with Paul and Ringo, was reduced to stunned silence for a second. Gradually, the fans began to sing along, and Ringo added a rather Latin-sounding drumbeat. Paul decided to throw caution to the winds, and jumped in with a pounding bass. By the last two lines, John was very literally kicking his knees up, leaping around the stage manically.

"Your turn, Macca!" yelled John.

"Jazz hands!" sang Paul. John and George joined in:

"Step in time,

Jazz hands!

Step in time,

Never need a reason,

Never need a rhyme,

Jazz hands!

Step in time!"

As they sang, the audience obeyed them: the Beatles grinned as they saw thousands of jazz hands fluttering in the audience. George added a catchy guitar riff to the end.

"Give us a verse, lad!" called John to George in a ridiculously fake Cockney accent.

"Okay!" replied George. He started to continue, but out of the corner of his eye he saw someone emerging onto the stage. He turned to see who it was, and paled. "Brian, get off the stage!"

John and Paul exchanged a smirk as they sang:

"Step in time,

Brian, get off the stage,

Step in time,

Never need a reason,

Never need a rhyme,

Brian, get off the stage,

Step in time!"

Evidently, Brian realized that the Beatles were a force of nature he could not control. Burying his face in his hands, the manager stumbled back off the stage.

"Now it's the drummer's turn!" crowed John, turning around and giving Ringo a thumbs-up.

"It's a stop sign!" yelled Ringo, pounding on the drums.

"Step in time,

It's a stop sign!

Step in time,

Never need a reason,

Never need a rhyme,

It's a stop sign!

Step in time!"

John grinned evilly. Even George looked slightly intimidated as the band's leader sang, "Kiss a Beatle!"

The spell was broken. The crowd screamed and surged forward.

"Let's go!" yelled George.

"We've got to finish the verse!" yelled John. And so they continued:

"Step in time,

Kiss a Beatle!

Step in time,

Never need a reason,

Never need a rhyme,

Kiss a Beatle!

Step . . . in . . . . time!"

John, Paul, and George harmonized the last word – not that anyone could hear over the screams. Some of the girls had broken through police barricades, triumphantly reaching the base of the stage.

John leaned back to the microphone. "Thank you very much!" he said in a falsetto.

Ringo stood up, and in unison, the Beatles bowed low. All four wigs tumbled off. John's rolled off the stage into the audience, where it was snatched by a fan's groping hand. The bright lights shone on the Beatles' bald caps as they ran offstage, into the waiting arms of Mal, Neil, and Brian.

**FINIS**

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Eager for more fun with John, Paul, George and Ringo? Then go read Escape of the Nerk Twins! You can find it on my profile page or by searching it :0)**


	23. Omake #1 - Don't Look Up . . .

A/N: **Hi everybody! I couldn't quite resist writing a little extra for this story, since you all enjoyed it so much :0) This is an alternate version of Chapter 5 (The Glitter Games). Ta for reading!**

* * *

Paul was awoken by a clicking noise. He didn't particularly want to be awoken, though, so he stayed curled up in his warm bed with his eyes closed. He figured that Brian had probably come to wake them up for an "early start," as he too often did. Still, Paul wished the manager had waited until after the wake-up call, at least.

 _Yep, there he is,_ thought Paul grimly as he heard a floorboard creak.

"'M coming, 'm coming," he mumbled sleepily, pulling his covers over his head.

He heard nothing. He started to fall asleep again.

 _Hang on, that's odd_ , Paul suddenly thought. _Shouldn't he have said something by now?_

The bassist pulled back down the sheet slightly and cracked one of his eyes open tentatively, preparing to be blinded by the morning sun. However, the hotel room was still pitch black, the only light coming from the illuminated face of the alarm clock, which marked the time as 2:18.

Paul opened his other eye and turned his head, scanning the room.

There. The door connecting his and Ringo's room with John and George's was open a crack. And next to it stood a shadowy figure, holding something long and thin in its hand.

Paul swore mentally.

"What're you doing in here?" he squeaked in a feeble attempt to be authoritative.

"Shh!" whispered the figure, putting a finger to its lips.

"I will not shush!" said Paul loudly, recovering his voice.

"Shut up! You'll wake him up!" replied the figure in a familiar Scouse accent.

"John?" whispered Paul, pushing himself into a sitting position.

"Yeah, of course, you idiot! Who else'd be sneaking into your room at 2:30 in the morning?" hissed John as he approached Ringo's bed.

Their heads both jerked around wildly at the sound of an ill-disguised titter.

"Er . . . was that you, John?" whispered Paul tentatively, his hands clenched around the edges of the sheet.

"Funny, I was gonna ask you that," replied John, spinning slowly in a complete circle.

"Psst, Ringo!" urged Paul quietly. "Are you up?"

"What're you doing?" complained John angrily. Ringo continued to snore loudly.

"I guess it wasn't him . . . ." muttered Paul.

Another titter ricocheted around the dark room before it was hastily muffled.

Paul flicked on the light beside his bed. Yellow warmpth oozed across the beige carped and dipped into the mountains and valleys of the messy blankets.

Paul stared at John. "I don't see anybody," he commented.

"Keep your voice down!" hissed John, his eyes darting back and forth across the empty room from behind his glasses. Slowly, he stalked over to the wardrobe in the back corner, tiptoeing carefully over the carpet.

"Gotcha!" he shouted gleefully, yanking open the door to the cupboard. Four empty hangers and an extra blanket stared back at him morosely.

Paul stifled a snigger. "Yeah, I think you've really found the culprit now, John."

"What's going on in here?" complained George, sticking his tousled head through the door connecting their rooms.

"We're conducting a thorough police search," blustered John, puffing out his chest. "Be a good lad and keep out of the way of the professionals."

Suddenly, a loud _crack_ snapped through the room. John, Paul, and George glanced around frantically for the source. Ringo snuffled and turned over.

"Who's there?" called George, adding under his breath, "John, if you're having me on . . . ."

A muffled giggle escaped and flittered around the room like a bird trapped indoors.

"Where's it coming from?" asked Paul.

"Sounds like somebody's giggling upstairs," commented Ringo blearily, struggling up to a sitting position.

"We're on the top floor, you daft git," dismissed John.

Another crackling _snap_ popped through the room, followed by an ominous _creak_. All four Beatles stared at the ceiling tiles in alarm as they buckled downward. Soon a mess of metal framework, white fiber ceiling tiles, strands of pink insulation, and teenage schoolgirls had collapsed to the beige carpet with an almighty _thump_.

George coughed halfheartedly and tried to brush some of the white powder now coating everything off of his sleeves. Paul clutched his chest and tried to make his heart slow down by hyperventilating. Ringo blinked.

"Can I help you, miss?" inquired John, offering one of the two girls a hand. She gripped it and unsteadily pulled herself to her feet.

"You're John," she remarked dreamily as he helped her friend stand up.

"You got that right," replied John easily. "I'm St. John the Baptist, have been ever since I was sainted."

"George!" shrieked the other, throwing herself at the coughing guitarist.

"No, I'm not!" George feebly attempted. "I'm . . . I dunno, Ringo!"

"Oh," muttered the girl, disappointed. "Sorry." She leapt away from him and glanced around the room.

Mal chose this moment to kick in the door and rush in, the cavalry of two close on his heels.

"What on Earth . . . ." mumbled Neil, staring at the scene before him.

Brian moaned. "The PR!" he exclaimed sadly. "The press! They can't find out!"

"Would you care for some glitter glue?" inquired John of the first girl, handing her a tube. "It's Happy Hour, so you get a bonus discount."

* * *

**A/N: And it's the end of the extra! Thanks for reading!**


	24. Omake #2 - On Being a Good Gift-Giver

**Another Omake!  I wrote this one at the same time I was writing "Beatles in a Beetle," but I never found a story I could fit it into.  I may still recycle it later on, but 'til then it's an extra for all my lovely readers :0)  Enjoy!  And ta to everybody who reviewed the last omake!**

* * *

 

John leapt down the stairs gleefully, clutching a large cardboard box.

"I got mugs!" he cackled.

"You got mugged?" exclaimed Ringo

"No, mug _s_ ," replied John, holding up the box. "One for each of you!"

"Do they have tea in them?" inquired George.

John shook his head.

"Then I'm not interested," sniffed George.

"I don't mind," said Paul hastily.

John pulled out the first mug and handed it to Paul.

"World's best winker," read Paul aloud as John gave George and Ringo their mugs.

"What's this supposed to mean?' asked George, showing the room his "world's okayest songwriter" mug.

John sniffed. "You ought to know that by now."

Ringo stared at his mug, flummoxed.

"What's it say, Rings?" asked Paul.

"Ringo," replied Ringo, fliping around his mug. Sure enough, it said "RINGO" in large letters.

"Oh," said Paul.

George snorted. "And I thought _I_ was underappreciated."

Paul turned to look up at John, who was grinning and rubbing his hands together in a not altogether benevolent manner.

"You are a _terrible_ gift-giver," Paul informed the rhythm guitarist emphatically.

"Aren't you lot lucky I forgot all your birthdays last year, then?" replied John.

"You didn't forget my birthday," sulked Ringo. "You celebrated by dumping a bucket of cold water on my head, remember?"

"Your birthday's in June," dismissed John. "It was a nice cool-off."

"A nice cool-off?" interjected George incredulously. "We were in the air conditioned recording studios!"

"And that'd be my birthday that's in June," added Paul, raising his hand halfway like a student unsure of whether to ask a question. "Ringo's is the seventh of July."

John grinned at his bandmates. "Your arguments are invalid. I've got Batman on my side."

* * *

**A/N:  A weird beginning and a weird ending, with no clear setting (though I'm envisioning a downstairs living room, perhaps?).  But I think the banter is still worth something ;0)**


	25. Omake #3 - Fender Bender

**And this is the last of the Beatles in a Beetle Omakes! For once and for all, this story is finally complete. I apologize for the OOC stuff going on in this one, it's just for larfs :0) Hope you like it! Also, ta to everybody who came back and reviewed the last one, you guys are the best :0)**

* * *

Brian stared after John for a few seconds before entering the dressing room, pulling the door shut behind him with a resounding _snap_.

Paul and Ringo looked up from the game of Hangman they were playing on John's notepad. George continued to practice his guitar in a corner in the back, paying no heed to the manager.

"Oh, hi, Brian," said Paul. "I see you got in alright, then."

Brian fumed silently for a second.

"John must've let you in," mused Ringo.

Brian decided to use his words. "George!"

George slowly raised his eyes from his beloved guitar. "How can I help you?"

"What did you do? Why are you locked away in here?" yelled Brian.

George raised an eyebrow. "Because we wanted to have some time to ourselves."

Brian broke. "I've had nothing but trouble from you four since John's driving escapade in Bournemouth! You have been irresponsible, in—"

"There are only three of us at the moment," pointed out George.

"I dunno, I thought the press conference yesterday went pretty well," said Paul. "To be completely fair, that is."

"What've I done?" asked Ringo. "I haven't started any of this!"

"You should go find John and blame him," suggested George.

"Will you listen to me for once?" yelled Brian.

"Actually, you know what? I'll go find him for you and give him a good telling-off," offered George. He stood up and handed his guitar to Brian. "Be careful with my guitar, and make sure I get it before we go onstage."

"DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE THIS ROOM!" yelled Brian. The three Beatles in the dressing room jumped.

"Or what?" replied George, recovering his cool composure.

"Or I'll drop your guitar," replied Brian with a psychotic grin.

George blanched. "That's my Fender Strat! You can't drop it!"

John chose this inopportune moment to return to the dressing room.

"Sorry, forgot my very important thingy," John announced breezily, strolling in with his hands in his pockets. "Don't mind me, just keep on doing whatever you were doing."

Brian growled menacingly.

John strolled over to Paul and Ringo and grabbed his pen from Ringo's trembling fingers.

"LENNON!" yelled Brian, brandishing George's Stratocaster threateningly, "THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!"

"What're you doing to do, ground me?" inquired John snidely.

Time seemed to slow down as Brian swung the guitar downward in an elegant curve. George lunged toward the crazed manager a second too late to save his guitar from banging into John's shin.

"Ow!" yelped John, clutching his leg.

"NO!" screamed George, lifting his precious guitar from the floor and cradling it in his arms. "It's dented! Look, right here!"

George pointed to a spot just below the pick guard. John, Paul, and Ringo dutifully leaned in to see.

"Relax, it's just a Fender-bender," replied John.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, the entire point of this omake was the pun at the end. Hehe, I'm wicked sometimes ;0) Thanks so much to everybody who read this! Stop by my profile to look for "Escape of the Nerk Twins" and my other Beatles stories!**

**All the best,**

**Doctor Lennon 007**


End file.
